Blood Red Scream
Tragedy88




Ha, take that! Taylor hit the send button. The little shit was dead. Or he would be when he booted up again. She laughed as she shut down and left the school. Ha, all the little fuckers would be crying to their mommies when they couldn't turn in their term papers. This is just too much fun...

I can't believe that after a year of this I still get kicks. I need a cigarette now.

She wandered down the campus, out the unprotected entrance directly into downtown. The harsh
winter wind pushed her down to Stucky's. At the ATM she used a stolen card to get a few hundred
dollars cash. The security camera was broken, no need to worry there. Like she'd worry anyway?
They couldn't catch her. They didn't even know where to begin.

She entered the steamed heat of Stucky's, picked up a pack of Marlboro's, a coke and a deli sandwich. The pimple-faced punk behind the counter didn't even give her a second glance.

Where to now? Job's done, a little org voice piped up in her head. Fuck off, she told it. This was no time for memories.

As she walked down the main street a light snow began to fall. A stretch limo with windows an illegal shade of black coasted slowly up beside her. There was the unmistakable swoop of glass against rubber and the low contralto voice of her employer beckoned.

"Get in," the voice said.

With an unaccustomed sigh of agitation Taylor stepped into the warm, plush interior of a very wealthy, very evil woman's limo.

"Where have you been?" the sultry voice accosted her.

"Out," Taylor replied shortly. She was in no mood for the seduction number.

Angel's face peered out of the darkened interior, cast in light and shadows. Her pale hair shimmered in the streetlight attempting to penetrate the shaded windows. She sneered, anger darkening her pale eyes.

Instinctively Taylor caught the hand that was about to slap across her face. "Don't," she hissed coldly.

"I own you, little girl. You will not talk back to me." The sultry voice was now edged with a dangerous undertone.

Taylor lowered her head in an attempt to appear humbled.

The woman was not impressed but wasn't about to push the matter. "Did you get the job done?"

Angel wasn't talking about the little virus at the school. "Of course."

"Good." Angel pulled a packet and an envelope from a hidden side compartment. Then she motioned
the driver to stop. The conversation was over.

Taylor stepped out into the cold. It was harsher now then ever before. On the sidewalk, snow falling in white sheets, she reviewed the file, dumped it in the nearest garbage can and lit up a cigarette.

The snow swirled and screamed against her and for the first time in six years she felt the loneliness sink in.

Slow, despondent steps took her down the sidewalk to the outskirts of the city. The sun was rising as Taylor came upon what appeared, on the outside, to be an abandoned warehouse. Without so much as a cautionary glance around she slid through the boarded up side door.

Taking the stairs two at a time she went up the first flight to the second floor landing. There she walked down a litter-covered hall to the end. A shining metal door stood out among the filth. It was relatively new, about two inches thick and locked securely.

Taylor opened a black panel hidden on the right side of the door, typed in the key code and rested her palm on the surface of a black pad. A faint green light scanned her print.

Access granted, the tiny screen read, and the door clicked open. Taylor entered and locked the door behind her.

The room was warm and a massive contrast to the building. What had appeared to be an abandoned
warehouse was a front for what she sarcastically referred to as 'home'. The rest of the warehouse was abandoned and at times used for transients or druggies. Some of them knew she was here, but no one bothered her.

Two or three transients had been privy to large sums of cash to keep the more unwanted elements
out. And any that stayed here with her permission were left with food or blankets. Though she would never, ever admit such a kind-hearted action.

Most believed, as Taylor did, that she had no heart left.

This part of the warehouse had been sound proofed, and though sparsely done, had a full bath,
kitchen, living room and upstairs loft bedroom.

A mass of computers lined one wall of the downstairs living room. There was a large screen TV and a futon on the other side of the room.

The kitchen was fully equipped, though seldom used, and it's only furniture was a breakfast island with two stools. The upstairs bedroom had a box spring and mattress set on the floor and nothing else.

No nick knack's or soveniours littered the free spaces. No posters or pictures adorned the bare white walls. And no personal possessions except clothing and bathroom accessories sat on the plastic crates in the bedroom.

Every computer part known to man lined the far wall in the living room and littered the hall. Some had never been put on the market. Some were bought legally, some by the black market and most stolen.