Free The Devil's Dream: A Nightmare by David Beers Page B

married to her husband long enough that she knew what he was thinking. Right now the man was sitting over there, wondering how his wife could be so dense on something that seemed so clear—without a single inclination that his complete flip-flop was incomprehensible. So, yes, she would pass on discussing anything else about abortion with him. The hills in Massachusetts weren’t bad to look at either. They had traveled this road before, maybe ten times over the years, always on their trip up to Canada. They would park the RV another two hundred miles up the road, sleep for the night (they were past the point in their marriage that either one of them would ever sleep on the couch), and finish the last leg of their journey tomorrow.
    “What’s that?” Martin asked.
    Karen didn’t know if he thought she had said something or if he was asking about an object on the road, but she didn’t care either way. She wasn’t answering him until he either recanted the statement about abortion or at least started making sense on his new stance.
    “Right there, Karen. What is that?”
    He was pointing now and she followed his finger with her eyes.
    Twenty feet off the road were...crosses. Ten of them in a circle, with each of the ‘arms’ touching the other. And...
    The RV rolled closer.
    People hung on the crosses.
    The first thing Karen thought was that this had to be some kind of new-age art, stuff that passed for art but really wasn’t even in the same genetic pool.
    Martin pulled the RV to the side of the road, thirty feet away from the circle of crosses. He got out of the driver’s seat without a word to her and walked along the front of the RV so that he stood on the green grass. Karen cracked her door, then opened it fully and stepped out herself.
    This was no artistic enterprise. Not a single cross stood empty; naked bodies hung from each one. Different sizes, but all women, hanging nude, with blood on their faces and their hands and their feet and oh, dear God in heaven have mercy on us sinners.
    Karen vomited on the grass, some of it spraying onto her shoes.

9
    H i , world.
    My name is Matthew Brand; perhaps you remember me? Of course, there will be some newcomers to this spinning rock who were not yet born or were not yet old enough to hear about me. For them, hi! Your parents, or whoever it is you are close with, should be able to give you a brief background on me, so I need not go into it now.
    Surrounding this letter are the crucified corpses of ten women. I found them all last night, nailed them all to their current homes, and then planted them all in New England soil. I had a busy night last night, and I’m tired now. Had I thought this thing out a bit more, I would have written this letter first, but if you bear with me, I think I may be able to make some progress in educating you all on my goals. This letter would have received no real traction if it wasn’t combined with a dramatic display, thus the poor women who will need to be identified by their parents at morgues over the next few days. Fear not, they suffered little and were not sexually harmed. In reality, their fate is going to be much better than the people still surviving, than those reading this letter—whether that be on a newscast or the Internet, it makes no difference.
    The FBI knows what I’m up to, they simply haven’t made you aware of it. I’ve contacted them. I’ve told them that this would happen if they did not get my message out to you all. They refused. So, I’ve taken it into my hands. In a way, it’s better. Now they know I’m not playing, and hopefully, you, dear citizen, know this is not a game as well. Four years ago, I killed a handful of people. Ten years before that, I killed the same number. Last night, I killed ten, and for no other purpose than to get your attention.
    I trust I have it now.
    The plan, what the FBI is refusing to tell you, is that within a month or two, all of you will be dead. There are Aborigines