"Yes Dr. Cooper." Answered a woman's voice. Jenkins was mildly surprised. The only doctor he had dealt with was Cooper and for some reason Jenkins had imagined the rest of the butchers up here to be just as classic mad scientist as Dr. Cooper.

"You may enter, Sgt. Brown." The third man held a portable flamethrower, and as the airlock hissed open he slowly stepped into the quarantine room. Dr. Cooper followed him trailed by Dr. Wilcox, pushing the instrument box. The airlock door hissed shut behind her.

The spongy mass of small tentacles that had been Ron's head was pointed toward the airlock door. Sgt. Brown took up a strategic position to one side, keeping his weapon aimed at the pod at all times. Dr. Wilcox brought the box to halt near the writhing face tentacles and immediately began tapping at a control panel while Dr. Cooper stepped over the vine like growth that had once been the right arm and stood next to the bloated torso.

"Telemetry online." Reported Dr. Wilcox.

"Very good." Dr. Cooper said. He slowly reached out a gloved and gently stroked the flesh of the pod with his index finger. The flesh indented in like an egg yolk under his soft probe, but did not break.

"Crazy son of a bitch." Jenkins muttered.

"Thank you for the compliment Colonel." Dr. Cooper replied. Jenkins gave a wry smile. The microphone was more sensitive than he thought.

Dr. Cooper pulled his finger away and held it up to his faceplate for closer examination. "The epidermis has the texture of gelatin and secretes a thin slime."

The doctor continued speaking but Jenkins had quit listening because his attention was now focused on the left leg vine stalk, which stretched to the far corner of the room and was now beginning to writhe!

"The left leg!" Jenkins blurted, patting the glass observation window. Dr. Cooper turned his head and gasped in shock.

The leg peeled away from the corner and curled back on itself like a scorpion tail, brushing the ceiling of the chamber. Inside the control room several alarms were blaring as the things vital signs went wild.

"Sergeant?" Dr. Cooper called, his voice filled with horror. Sgt. Brown took that as an order to fire. He ran forward, the nozzle of the flamethrower aimed at the curling left leg. He pulled the trigger and a narrow stream of fire shot out, engulfing the coiling limb in liquid flame.

"Abort!" General Parker shouted, his face flushed with surprise. "Dr. Cooper Abort!" But Dr. Cooper just stood there, staring up at the flaming tentacle thrashing around like a loose fire hose.

Dr. Wilcox took several steps back from the control box, her eyes glued to the flaming beast. Suddenly her feet became entangled and she fell backward, her head smashing hard enough to crack the faceplate in her NBC suit. A sickening pain flooded her skull and for a moment she blacked out.

Jenkins saw her go down out of the corner of his eye. He looked over to see that three of the face tentacles had elongated like slugs and wrapped themselves around her ankles. To his astonishment they were now slowly wriggling their way up her calves. Sgt. Brown spotted it as well and stepped over and aimed the flamethrower at them. The entire mass of them were now pulsating and elongating like giant worms, the light glistening off their coating of slime.

"Burn!" Sgt. Brown screamed and hosed them with fire. The creature's flesh went up like fuel soaked rags, engulfing all of the tentacle stalks and spreading across the bloated torso. The tentacles that were wrapped around Dr. Wilcox legs, engulfed in fire, separated from the main mass with a burst of bloody pus.

Dr. Wilcox came to, and struggled to sit up, her head swimming with nausea and pain. Seeing her lower body engulfed in flame she let out a scream and began kicking violently. The three tentacles fell away from her, writhing in agony as the flames consumed them like a fuse.

"GET OUT OF THERE!" Jenkins screamed at the top of his lungs. "COOPER! GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE!"

But Dr. Cooper just slowly stepped away from the flaming pod, which had begun to pulsate and secrete large amounts of slime in an attempt to extinguish the flames. Dr. Cooper continued to walk backwards until he bumped against the observation window.

"COOPER! GET OUT!" Jenkins and General Parker both screamed and slapped at his back through the Plexiglas window, but he ignored them.

Sgt. Brown stepped over to the airlock and put his back against the hatch. "OPEN THE HATCH! OPEN THE GODDAMNED HATCH!"

The left arm tentacle writhed in front of him and he trained his flamethrower on it and fired. He held the trigger down and hosed the entire length of the mulchy, vine like tentacle, which stretched up into the corner of the ceiling. It began to jump and thrash as it came loose from the wall.

"OPEN THE FUCKING HATCH!".

"We can't risk contamination." One of the technicians said feebly, looking to General Parker for support. But the General ignored him, watching the carnage unfold within the vivisection room with astonished eyes.

"Let him out of there!" Jenkins snapped. His heart was racing and icy cold lances of fear coursed down his spine. His instincts were telling him to act, to do something besides sit there and watch those three people die in there.

"We cannot risk contamination!" the technician snapped back. Jenkins knew the man was right. Nothing could come out of that room until the pod creature was destroyed and the three members of the vivisection team screened for infection.

Back in the quarantine room the flames engulfed the bloated, pulsating gestation pod and all four of the tentacle limbs as well. Sensing its impending doom, the survival instinct of the creature took over and after one giant contraction the gestation sac burst with a great expulsion of pus, blood, alien amniotic fluid and hundreds of writhing black slugs that flew to all corners of the room.

Dr. Cooper could only raise his arms and scream as he was coated in the foul effluvia. Jenkins and General Parker lurched back as the putrid ooze splattered against the observation window.

Sgt. Brown wiped the gore away from the faceplate of his NBC helmet and aimed his flamethrower at the dozens of tiny slugs wriggling in all directions with the speed of a mouse. He squeezed the trigger and the liquid filth covering the floor ignited like gasoline at the flames touch.

"BURN YOU LITTLE MOTHERFUCKERS!" He laughed with mad glee as the slugs withered and died under the rolling wall of fire. His eyes caught movement at the periphery of his vision and he turned to see the flaming left arm tentacle swoop down toward him. He tried to step aside but the flaming stalk wrapped tight, entangling around his waist. A deep, burning pain gnawed into his gut and he felt something break and go pop inside him. He let out a gurgled scream of pain as he was yanked off his feet. His arms flailed and his finger tightened on the trigger of the flamethrower, spraying the room wildly.

The slime and slugs slid away from the observation window in time for Jenkins to see Sgt. Brown snatched off his feet by the flaming tentacle. Dr. Cooper, covered in pus, slime and slugs was staggering toward the burning, deflated gestation pod when the final burst of Sgt. Brown's flame-thrower caught him and the pod both. Had Dr. Cooper not been covered in pus and slime his inflammable NBC suit would have easily protected him from the flamethrower but the thick, syrupy filth was steaming with noxious and highly flammable gasses and Dr. Cooper went up with a loud whoosh. He began to scream hysterically and charged the observation window. He bounced away from the thick Plexiglas and fell flat on his back where he struggled to regain his feet.

Fire swept up the observation window, fueled by the slimy residue of the exploded gestation pod. The roiling flames cast the entire control room in a surreal, shadowy yellow light and blocked their view of what was transpiring inside.

Dr. Wilcox finally kicked herself free of the flaming tentacles, crawled to the airlock hatch and was now feebly pounding on the door. "Please help us! Please? I don't want to die." Her plea's for help were muffled by tears and nearly drowned out by the hysterical screaming of her teammates.

Three more yellow NBC suited figures stepped into the airlock. Two of them were holding flamethrowers and the third sported a stubby sub-machine gun with a large, five hundred round canister magazine.

"The purge team is on deck General Parker. Shall I deploy them?" the control tech asked. The amber light of the fire making the shadows ripple across his face. The General looked to Jenkins. He was pale, afraid and unsure of what to do. Jenkins bit back his disgust and took charge.

"Deploy the purge team." He ordered. Jenkins knew what that meant. Those three men were Cleaners. Exterminators. They were going in there and they were the only three that were coming out of there alive. Jenkins didn't like making the call, but the remaining members of the vivisection team were as good as dead anyway.

The tech pressed a button on his console and the three men in the airlock snapped their weapons to attention. A moment later the airlock hatch slid aside and there was Dr. Wilcox. She reared back on her knees, her arms outstretched.

"Thank god you came for us!" her voice was full of exasperated joy. The exterminator with the submachine gun aimed at Dr. Wilcox and stitched her from stomach to face with a ten round burst. Her chest exploded outward and her faceplate exploded inward under the hail of bullets, and she fell back into the room with her arms spread wide and her guts hanging through the ruptured NBC suit. One of the exterminators with a flamethrower stepped forward through the hatch, hosed Dr. Wilcox' twitching, slime covered body and moved deeper into the room.

Although every part of the pod creature was crackling with flames, it burned slowly. Instead of withering to dust under the fire like the slugs did the pod creature bubbled and melted like wax and popped like firewood. The left arm tentacle had crushed Sgt. Brown to death, his flame covered body hanging limply from its coils.

Doctor Cooper finally managed to pull himself to his feet. He was still wrapped in flames but much of the slime had been flung or scraped off in his thrashing. His environmentally sealed NBC suit had not been breached and continued to protect him from the flames and scorching heat and provide him with oxygen. He began to swipe at the remaining patches of burning slime on his chest.

By now the entire room was a flaming inferno. Besides the burning creature much of the floor and walls were covered with the gestation pods noxious, flammable birthing fluid. The fire had spread out across the floor and up the walls wherever the slimy, blood filled pus ran. The lead exterminator looked over to see the tip of the right arm tentacle sweeping for him. The brilliance of the fire reflected like a mirror in his faceplate. He stepped back and began to hose the encroaching, flaming tentacle with fire. It did little to slow the limb and nothing to stop it from coiling around his torso and sweeping him from his feet.

"NUMBER ONE?" the man screamed hysterically.

The cleaner with the submachine gun stepped forward through the airlock hatch and began to fire his weapon into the base of the tentacle near the main body. The heavy caliber bullets chewed through the thick, plantlike flesh and the burning tentacle was severed. It and its prey crashed to the ground where it instantly tightened like a python, wrapping the ensnared exterminator into its bone crunching coils. His facemask filled with blood and vomit and his dying screams of pain were little more than gurgles.

"Number Two is down." Said Number One, the man with the sub machinegun. "Number Three, right flank." The last member of the purge team stepped out of the airlock and took his position. The airlock door hissed shut behind him.

The flaming tentacle had shattered Number Two's faceplate with its powerful coils and one burning tip was forcing its way down his throat. Number Three raised his flamethrower and hosed them down. The flames penetrated Number Two's breached NBC suit and ignited his flesh within.

Number One turned left to scan the room and his eyes widened with surprise as he saw the flaming left arm tentacle with Sgt. Browns burning corpse still held aloft in its coils slithering toward him. It had been unmoving when he entered and presumed dead. Before he could confirm it his attention had been diverted to saving Number Two. Number One raised his weapon and fired, the bullets chewing into the fiery mass, splattering chunks of flaming flesh in all directions. The tentacle reared back like a snake about to strike then lurched forward and threw Sgt. Browns rag doll corpse at Number One. A small scream escaped his mouth before Sgt. Brown's 245lb flaming corpse smashed into him. Number One was lifted off his feet as he and Sgt. Brown flew backward and smashed into the still burning observation window like a runaway bus.

"LOOK OU-" was all the tech at the video monitor got out before the pair of entwined bodies exploded through the flame covered window, spraying everyone in the control room with burning shards of Plexiglas.

Jenkins raised his hands to his face and twisted away from the window but a couple of flaming slivers still found his face, gouging burning furrows in his cheek and forehead as he fell face first onto the floor. He grunted in pain and swatted the flaming glass from his face. With a groan of pain Jenkins pushed himself to his feet, reaching for his sidearm. He looked for General Parker and saw the General hadn't been so lucky. Not only had he took the initial explosion of glass head on, taking dozens of flaming glass daggers to his exposed face and throat, but the two flaming bodies had crashed into him and they all went down in a heap. Jenkins kicked the burning corpses off the General and winced at the chopped hamburger the window shards had made of his face and throat. The three technicians were slowly climbing to their feet, wincing and moaning at various burning cuts. The sprinkler system fire extinguisher engaged, sending cold water cascading down on all corners of the control room.

Number Two pressed himself up against the airlock door. The flaming pod creature continued to writhe and pulsate but none of the tentacles reached for him. He looked across the room and saw one of the original vivisection team enter the control room through the busted observation port. His NBC suit was blackened from fire and flaking with black crust, making it impossible for Number Two to identify which member of the team it was.

Jenkins spotted something entering the control room through the shattered observation window and raised his .45 to shoot.

"DON'T SHOOT COLONEL! IT'S DR. COOPER!" His NBC suit was blackened from the fire but Jenkins could still make out the doctors bulging, spectacled eyes through the faceplate.

"You were covered in slime! I saw you get torched by a flamethrower!" Jenkins kept his gun aimed at Dr. Cooper.

"My suit protected me." The Doctor said, stumbling into the room. His suit instantly began to hiss and issue a cloud of steam under the pouring water. Jenkins moved around to peer into the fiery quarantine room. "Check the readout if you don't believe me."

Number Three heard the entire exchange on his suit comlink, still unsure what to believe. Colonel Jenkins or Dr. Cooper? Number Three and his team had been sent in on a Purge mission, but if Dr. Cooper was telling the truth then there was no real reason to terminate him. He was the one who had put the Purge Protocols into place to begin with and if there was anyone who could explain this as well as clean up the mess it was Dr. Cooper. His mind made up, he scanned the room about him, paying close attention for any slugs escaping the fire. There were none. The threat here in the quarantine room seemed neutralized by the flames so Number Three bolted for the shattered observation window. He had taken only a few steps when Colonel Jenkins stepped into view, pistol pointed directly at his head.

"Hold it soldier!" Number Three stopped and pointed his flamethrower aside. Jenkins lowered his .45. "Get in here out of the fire!" Jenkins motioned him inside.

Number Three hurried into the control room. He gave it a quick scan. One of the technicians had already fled the control room and another was at the door. The third had taken a seat in a swivel chair and was nursing a severely lacerated face. General Parker's blood soaked, Plexiglas dagger-ridden corpse lie in the center of the room with Number One and Sgt. Brown's smoldering bodies in a tangled heap beside him. He looked over at Dr. Cooper who stood there steaming like a hot rock under the spray of water.

"We must quarantine all these men Colonel. The Doctor, you and I included. One man has already left this room. He must be stopped before he comes into contact with anyone else." Jenkins couldn't argue that logic. The quarantine room had been breached.

"I agree. But let's get out of this room into the hallway. I'm soaking wet and the stench from the burning bodies is awful." Jenkins turned for the door.

"And there is no telling what the effects of inhaling the smoke and vapors may have." Dr. Cooper chimed in almost gleefully. Jenkins felt his stomach sink as the Doctors words sank in. Jenkins had inhaled plenty of the oily smoke before the sprinkler system washed it away. The foul taste of it was still fresh on his tongue and burning in his lungs. Images of a putrid, rash covered Ron came to his mind. Was the same thing going to happen to him? Only taking root as a growth in his lungs?

They all moved out into the hallway. The first tech to flee the room was waiting near one of the elevators and Number Three commanded him to return. He did so grudgingly. Less than a minute later the elevator opened and out stepped six NBC suited figures. Three of them comprised Purge Team-2, equipped exactly as Team-1 had been and the other three carried emergency medical kits.

"Status report." Team-2's leader snapped.

"Number One and Two from my team are down. The quarantine room was breached and General Parker was killed. Dr. Cooper is the only survivor of the Vivisection Team. His suit environmental seal appears to have remained intact. And since Dr. Cooper is the head of the project I felt it prudent to spare him."

"Check them all." Team-2 leader snapped, stepping away for the medical team. The three medics immediately began extracting blood from all non-suited personnel via a pinprick on the fingertip. A drop of blood was then placed on a strip and inserted into a handheld unit similar to what diabetics used to check blood sugar levels. One of the Team-2 members checked a small electrical dial protected by heat resistant Plexiglas on the back of Number Three and Dr. Coopers NBC suits. He had to wipe smudge from the fire away to see a small green light on both suits.

"Both suits environmentally secure." He reported.

One of the medics pricked Jenkins finger and dripped the blood onto the test strip. Jenkins heart began to pound and the oily aftertaste of the inhaled smoke came back to him and he couldn't shake the image of a black fungus spreading its tentacles into his lungs.

"What does that thing look for?" he asked.

"It analyzes the chemical make up of the blood, searching for any active necrobiotic agents."

"It looks like a diabetes test." Jenkins continued the conversation.

"It basically is. The only difference is it has been calibrated to detect necrobiotic agents in the blood rather than blood sugar levels."

"We didn't have anything like that down at the U." Jenkins said.

"It's brand new. Developed right here in Park City." The little unit beeped and the doctor checked the results. "Negative. All clear. You're clean, Colonel." Jenkins felt a cool wave of relief wash through his body. All three techs had been cleared as well. One of the doctors was now cleaning and dressing the wounded techs face. The Team-2 leader stepped up to Jenkins.

"Colonel, with General Parker dead that makes you the highest ranking officer in the militia. I suggest you, Dr. Cooper and the three civilians evacuate to a more secure area and debrief while me and my team clean up down here." Jenkins was still chewing over the first part of the sentence, the part about him being the ranking officer in the militia.

"What about me?" Number Three asked?

"You're with me." Jenkins said. Everyone looked at him. "I want you there in the debriefing. You saw that thing in action, up close and personal."

"I'm staying below to oversee the cleanup." Dr. Cooper said.

"Excuse me?" Jenkins asked irritably.

"This was my project, Colonel. My responsibility. I want to be down here to see that the remains are disposed of properly." Jenkins considered ordering the doctor to the debriefing but he was more useful down here. Besides, Jenkins had seen enough of his bug-eyed face for a little while.

"I want you to report to me, in person, as soon as you are finished here."

"Of course Colonel. I should only be a few hours at most." Jenkins nodded his approval. That would give him time to try and sort out the burden of command that had just been thrust upon his shoulders...

Chapter 49.

Tuesday, June 26, 2001 Rainbow Lake, UT 3:23 PM.

His name was Mordecai Necrotura. He was not human. Oh he looked human all right. He ate, drank, slept, sweat, and excreted like a human. He had all the same organs, pipes and pumps, and if cut he would bleed as red as any man. But that was where the similarities between he and humanity ended. For one of the defining characteristic of humanity was their capacity for love, and there existed no such thing in the twisted, black sewer of filth and corruption that was his soul. Inside that black vault existed only hatred and pain, and the sadistic need to inflict both on all those around him. But that had not always been the case, just as his name had not always been Mordecai Necrotura. As he turned away from his sacrificial table, the slab of butchered meat that moments ago had been a living breathing young woman was pushed from his mind and he let his thought's ride the current of euphoric enlightenment coursing through him, recalling how he had risen from his humble beginnings to the incarnation of inhuman evil that he had become...

He was born Walther Jennings, in the town of Kittewa Utah, October 20, 1930. He was the youngest of six children, with three brothers and two sisters before him. He was tall and gangly, and even at birth the doctor had commented on his strange green eyes. The Jennings had been dairy farmers, but by age seven it had been determined that Walther possessed genius level intelligence and the life of a dairy farmer was far too mundane for his superior intellect. While other Kittewa boys his age were learning the basic of milking cows and sewing fields, Walther was doing home studies at the twelfth grade level.

There was one aspect of the dairy farmer's life that did appeal to Walther and appeal to him greatly: the slaughtering of the animals. The night before the slaughtering was done Walther would find he was unable to sleep, his mind filled with images and coppery scent of the blood as the cattle's throat was sliced, or the piles of steaming entrails that would spill from their bodies when they were gutted. Perhaps the most satisfying was the bleating, helpless cries of the animals as they sensed inescapable death about to take them. He found the sights and smells and sounds of the slaughterhouse intoxicating. When puberty hit, he would wander out into the fields after the slaughtering was done, his groin aching with the intensity of his erection, and find small field animals and insects to torture and mutilate while he masturbated again and again, losing all track of time until the fall of darkness would finally break his trance and he would return home, spent.

It was also at that time that he began to hear the Voices. Oh he had always heard voices, but these ones were different. They weren't just voices, they were Voices! And they spoke to and enlightened him in a way that no others had. While the others helped him to burn the quiet times away lost in a fantasy world these new Voices gave him insights and observations into the many aspects of human nature; Love, Hate, Vanity, Lust, Pride, Envy, Compassion, Faith, Aggression. They also taught him to recognize and even predict patterns of probability in the chaos of the universe, and helped him master the art of body language, and how to modulate his tone and inflection when speaking to command attention and take control. During middle and high school he could have had any girl in town he wanted in his bed, but not because of his tall, thin, awkward frame with arms and legs that seemed to long for his body but rather the magnetism of his personality and the hypnotic intensity of his emerald green eyes. But he desired none of them. The thought of having sex gave him an icy chill in his stomach, a foul ball of tension that festered and boiled and could only be relieved by the comforting release of the slaughterhouse and his Communion of Death and masturbation out in the fields.

The voices also taught him how to listen in on the thoughts of others. At first, it was faint whispers, as if he were listening through a thin wall or doorway, and he had trouble discerning them from the smaller, background voices that had always been there in his head. But with practice and concentration he found he was able to tune into the mental patterns of others with the ease of adjusting the dial on a radio, and their thoughts became as clear and audible as they would were they speaking to him directly.

Once done with high school he had no time for college. WW2 was over and 1948 America was booming. The Dairy business was doing very well and his father had given each of his children a $5000 dollar stake in the farm upon their eighteenth birthday. Walther opted for $1000 dollars cash, left Kittewa and dairy farming to his family. With his heightened awareness and intuition he took great notice in the booming stock market and found it laughably easy to predict the fluctuations and patterns. Within thirty days had turned his $1000 dollars cash into $50,000 dollars worth of commodities stock. Within sixty days it was 10 times that, and within a year, Walther Jennings was a multi-millionaire, the Voices guiding him every step of the way.

For that first year he made his fortune on Wall Street and avoided the Communion, focusing all of his energy and concentration on making money. But now that he had it, he found his old appetite had returned, and returned with a hunger never before seen. As soon as he entertained the thought of Communion he found himself thinking not of the slaughterhouse and small field animals, but the soft, nubile bodies of the young women he had denied himself all these years.

That night he found himself walking the streets through a neighborhood known for its high crime, drugs and prostitutes. He'd dressed for the occasion, leaving his expensive jewelry and fine, tailor made clothes back at his Park Avenue penthouse, opting for a faded pair of jeans, a blue pullover, a dark windbreaker and sneakers. He passed several street walkers until he spotted one that made the Voices sing. She was small and petite, no older than 20, with long brunette hair, a pale complexion and large, sad blue eyes. When he first stepped up he could see her cringe from the intense, almost hostile look in his eyes, his telepathy could hear the caution in her thoughts, but when she saw the $50 dollar bill in his hands the frown of apprehension quickly turned to a grin of easy money. He could read her thoughts, and he knew $50 was five times the normal amount she charged. She was already wondering if this high paying sucker would become a regular customer? She took the money and without a word he grabbed her by the arm and led her into the nearest alley, far back among the heaps of trash.

Although he knew what was to come, he found himself amazingly calm. The girl sat on a garbage can and pulled a condom from her purse. He took off his jacket and tossed it aside then dropped his jeans and slipped the condom over his erection with a small giggle of excitement. She then lie back across the trashcan and spread her legs. He stepped between her thighs and could see that she wore no panties under her red skirt. His heart suddenly began to hammer in his chest and the Voices filled his head.

Do it!

He looked at the girls face, her eyes were closed and she bit her bottom lip and moaned softly.

Do it now! The Voices commanded.

Walther slipped his right hand up the left sleeve and came out with a long, thin, double-edged knife. He ran his free hand up her stomach slowly, lovingly cupping a breast through her blouse before his hand clamped viciously on her throat. He eyes came open and she tried to scream, but because of his grip it came out a choking grasp. She tried to pull his hand away but he tightened his grip. Her eyes looked into his, wide with fear, her thoughts throbbing with the need to breathe. He held the knife up for her to see, the Voices sighing with pleasure as her thoughts now turned to icy terror. She began to struggle harder, full of desperation, but he only squeezed her throat tighter, holding her down on the garbage can. With a snarl he thrust the knife into her abdomen, right through her blouse just above the navel. She let out another choking gasp, spittle and mucous flew from her lips and nostrils and he pushed the knife deeper into her stomach, all the way to the hilt. She began to buck underneath him and he choked her tighter, feeling his orgasm nearing. He began to make small sawing motions with the knife, cutting up the length of her belly. Blood was flowing hot and free from her wound, splashing across his hand and down onto his legs. He continued to saw up her torso, feeling the edge of the blade slice through organs, pipes and flesh. When he felt the blade strike against her sternum he pulled it free and tossed it aside. The girl's struggles had become faint convulsions as the life was quickly slipping from her. But Walther was not yet done. He slipped his free hand into the wound, feeling her ruined entrails pressing in around his arm, pushing his hand deeper into her eviscerated torso, further...Deeper...Stopping only when he felt his fingers close around her faintly beating heart. He squeezed it with all of his strength, feeling the girl's body convulse one final time. He reached orgasm just as the girl's heart stopped beating in his hand, the condom catching his seed. The Voices slowly receded and he could hear her final frantic thoughts slip away to the afterlife as he stepped away from her. He pulled his pants up, covering his blood soaked legs. He didn't bother to remove the condom; he would dispose of that back at his apartment. He pulled his jacket back on and slipped the knife back up his sleeve.

Without a backwards glance he left the alley and returned home. Once there he stuffed the bloody clothes and condom in a paper sack, walked down the hall and dumped them all down the chute to the buildings incinerator. Then he went back to his apartment, took a long, scalding hot shower, climbed naked into bed and slept soundly. The body of the woman was found the next morning, but the radio reported the police had no leads save for a single witness who had seen the girl enter the alley with a tall man in a dark jacket. There were no other physical descriptions and with a smile Walther knew he had gotten away with it.

And so Walther Jennings began to lead a dual life, a successful Wall Street broker by day and a serial murderer at night. But he was smart, preying only on prostitutes and young homeless girls. And he never penetrated them sexually, always killing hem just before the act. And the Voices guided him all along. The frequency of his Communion varied. Sometimes he would go a month between Communions, other times he would do several in a week. Once he had taken Communion 3 times in a single night, and the longest he ever went between sessions was a whole year. And the Communion itself evolved, going from murder and disemboweling to now include cannibalism. He found the brains and hearts of his victims especially tantalizing and was also fond of drinking their blood.

By 1960 Walther Jennings had a net worth of one billion dollars and had grown as odd and eccentric as he was rich and powerful. He used his vast wealth to fund obscure archaeological digs and bizarre monster, treasure, and artifact hunts of little or no scholarly value but heavily steeped in the arcane and occult. Over the years Walther had asked the Voices who they were and where they came from and all he had ever gotten for an answer was a scolding laugh and told he was not yet ready for such knowledge but one day, all would be revealed to him. But until that time he was to continue his study of the occult and practice of ESP.