The morning sun gleamed in the welcome sign, and I found myself grinning with a sudden feeling of excitement. Welcome to Kedalup; please drive slowly.
The letters R and V on the word 'drive' had been removed, altering the message in a somewhat fitting way.
You see, I had a very specific reason to visit this small town. It wasn’t the scenery, and it wasn’t even the lovely local meat-pies. It was something more personal.
I was here to take a life.
Well, two lives, to be exact; two adolescent sons from the Clift family.
I had been planning the kill for a while now: stalking my victims, learning their routines, devising my method. How, when, where, I had decided it all. I think I knew more about them than their own family and friends did. The hardest part of a kill was the planning and preparation that came with it - but tonight was where all the hard work paid off, and my plans were executed.
The Clift family owned a block of land about fifteen minutes out of town. They lived there, and they would soon die there. It was convenient for them to live so far away from civilization, and the isolated locale gave me a lot of creativity in regards to how I’d tackle the task.
It was 3:30pm, and the family wasn’t going to be home for another half-an-hour, giving me ample time to prepare. I drove my car down, past the house and into the back paddock. There was an empty creek I could park my car in, out of sight. The dry, cracked earth ensured that my tyres left no tracks, and it was walking distance from my predetermined kill-sites.
I was a very organised monster. My crimes had to be executed perfectly, and I had mentally created a time-schedule to follow. I had revised this particular schedule so many times that I knew it by heart, and I found myself recalling it for what would be the final time.
3:30pm – Arrive at location & prepare
4:00pm – Clift Family arrives home
4:25pm – Son #1, Tyson, begins long distance running practice
5:00pm – Tyson arrives at Kill-Site #1 (creek)
6:00pm – Son #2, Jack, arrives at Kill-Site #2 (motocross track) to train for Motocross Enduro
7:00pm – Leave Clift farm
In the thirty minutes I had to myself, I ensured my weapons were ready, my kill-sites were ready, and most important of all, I was ready. The physical aspect was already done - with my treadless sneakers and leather gloves equipped prior to my arrival – but I had to mentally prepare myself for what I was about to do. Yes, I am a killer, but taking a life is not something I enjoy, rather than it is something I have to do. It’s like a stray dog that you feed once out of sympathy, and it keeps coming back for more.
My watch beeped as the clock ticked over to 4:00pm. Time for action.
In the back of my SUV were two glass boxes; my murder weapons stashed in each. The first box was small, and dark. It was hard to see through the tangled mass of webs, but inside that box was a number of Sydney Funnel-Web Spiders. The massive arachnids crawled around, peacefully, elegantly. The second box was much larger, with power cords attached to it and a large UV light illuminating the slender brown scales of the Inland Taipan. It coiled and hissed as I tapped against the tempered wall that housed it.
I know it might be a bit confusing. Other killers use knives, poison, ropes, guns. I use venomous creatures. Other than the fact that it leaves little to no trace that my victims were murdered, I find it exhilarating to see the slow, painful death of somebody from the hand of nature. It’s a bit ironic really, mankind shits all over nature, and I am allowing nature to bite back.
Kedalup was located just west of the Great Dividing Range, where Funnel-Web spiders are common; and nearing towards inland Australia, where Taipans are common. Whilst Kedalup wasn't necessarily in the prime place to find either of those two species, it is not uncommon for a Taipan or couple of Funnel-Webs to find a home in this temperate region - meaning my murders wouldn't be treated as much more than accidents.
I spied from the long grass with my binoculars, just waiting for everybody to go about their daily routine. Tyson was a long distance runner, state champion for Cross-Country, and he would run a few kilometres every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Luckily for me, he ran the same trail every time, so I had the perfect kill-site just for him, only a few minutes’ walk up the creek.
At exactly 4:25pm, Tyson began his run. It would take roughly 45 minutes for him to loop around into the creek, where the kill-site was. It was a relatively long time to wait, but killing efficiently requires a lot of patience. Eventually, Tyson began his loop around towards the creek. I had watched him until now to ensure there were no deviations in his routine. Sometimes, I get unlucky and have to improvise, or in some cases, leave and re-plan the whole kill. Luckily there wasn't any deviations, as suspected, and he now made his way directly towards the kill-site, giving me ample time to ready my weapon before his arrival.
I am a brilliant zoologist, and had studied animals of all kinds throughout my schooling and adult life. I have a soft spot for animals, unlike other serial killers who get a kick out of murdering the neighbours’ puppy. Handling venomous creatures was now second nature to me. I opened the box that housed the Taipan, and in one quick movement I grabbed it behind the head, and gently stuffed it into my cloth sack for easy transport.
Crouched in the grass at the first kill-site, I waited, much like a predator stalking his prey. My watch ticked over to 5:00pm, and shortly afterwards Tyson came jogging down into the creek bed. In my tan and khaki camos, there was no way Tyson could have spotted me. I was the perfect killing machine; but so was my weapon.
During the preparation stage I had moved a large log from the top of the creek to the bottom, right on to the path of Tyson’s cross-country. I had only recently concealed my weapon in the long grass around the log, and no matter whether Tyson ran around it, moved it, or jumped over it, he would cross paths with the snake. Taipans are a naturally aggressive species, and have been known to chase humans even when no threat was presented. I could only imagine the reptile's reaction to a human's presence mere minutes after being trapped in a bag by one.
“What the fuck?” Tyson panted to himself as he went to inspect the conveniently placed obstruction. My heartbeat picked up each step Tyson took towards his impending demise. I could almost see the scene unfolding moments before it happened. As soon as the boy trudged into the overgrown shrub, the long and slender creature sprung up from the ground, and latched its fangs onto the inside of Tyson’s thigh, mere centimeters from the femoral artery. Tyson screamed, and stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet as he tumbled into the dirt. The snake struck at its fallen foe's legs again and again at an unrivaled pace; its fangs penetrating easily through the soft skin of its prey.
An Inland Taipan, also known as the Fierce Snake, is the most dangerous snake in the world, and its venom consists of a deadly 110mL concoction of neurotoxins, myotoxins and hemotoxins. In short: the venom spreads quickly; thinning out the blood and causing muscle paralysis before inducing heart failure. Tyson was a slender boy, and he was already physically exerted from the long run. The venom would pulsate through his system and render him unconscious in less than ten minutes. After that; well it’s pretty damn obvious.
“Shit!” he cried to himself; tears streaming down his face as he stumbled back to his feet. The Taipan recoiled into the grass. The effects could already be seen on Tyson, as he eyed his surroundings in confusion and shock for a few moments. After a few seconds, his natural response took over, and he scrambled up the long eroded sides of the creek, using one hand to try find a cell-phone signal to call for help. His efforts were futile. I had chosen the perfect area; no cell-phone reception, and nobody around to hear his cries for help. He brought himself to his own death, I only orchestrated the scenario, and he alone played it out. I followed behind him for a while, unbeknownst to him, watching the venom take hold. He walked uneasily through the dirt, his body shaking and convulsing. It wasn't long before the limping began; no doubt a result of the muscle paralysis beginning to set in. When he was about forty-five meters from the creek, he dropped to the ground, and closed his eyes forever.
“Be free my friend, you’ve done me proud,” I said to the snake as it recoiled back into the grass whilst I made my way back to the car. It showed no aggression towards me whatsoever, as if we were two killers who held a mutual respect for each other - each of us defying our nature for the greater good.
It was almost time for my second kill, and I planned to use the Sydney Funnel-Web spiders for that one. I carefully tipped up the box and lured two of the wiry, hairy arachnids into a small container. I had forty minutes until Jack arrived at his crude motorbike course to practice for the upcoming endurance competition. He was an amazing biker, but his talents were about to go to waste.
It was a little before 6:00pm when Jack’s engine rang through the paddock as he entered the first corner of his track. He was skilled, really efficient at high-speed hairpins and shifting his weight as he ran over the rough logs, stone and shale. But there was always one flaw he had, and that was the fact that he was a creature of habit. Much like me, he had a routine that he would follow. After three small laps, and the sun was setting, he would take off his gloves and helmet, and piss onto the log on the last corner. He hated it, as his father added it to the track for extra practice, and Jack always crashed on it. Recently, he had been doing quite well, thus not having to urinate on the log. However, being a creature of habit, he would always hit the log on a certain angle. In my preparation, I had dragged a similar sized log onto the track, and placed it only two meters behind the original. That would mean Jack would clear the first log as usual, but he would hit the second log at an awkward angle. I had been watching this guy for long enough to know that he would stack on the second log, and that after three laps he would piss on it.
I was right.
At the end of his three laps, he parked the motorbike at the entrance to the track. Taking off his gloves and helmet, the young man retreated into the forest to piss on the newly placed log, just as anticipated.
However, the helmet, bike and gloves were out of view from the second log, which was deep into the thick forestry. All I needed were roughly thirty seconds to place the spiders into his helmet and right hand glove, then pull the fuel line out of the tap, causing it to empty what little was left of the tank.
I sank away into the trees, out of sight, just as Jack returned to his motorbike. Suspecting nothing was afoot, he placed the helmet onto his head, and the gloves onto his hands. Almost immediately, Jack tore his hand from the glove as he screamed in fear. He dropped the glove onto the ground and stomped it into the dirt. But during the violent and erratic stomping, the second spider fell loose from the helmet and landed on Jack's face. Trapped behind the goggles, the spider delivered a number of vicious bites to the eyes and nose of the screaming boy. Eventually, Jack was able to tear the helmet from his head. He tried to stomp the spider into the ground, but the accuracy of his kicks only showed the effects of getting bitten in the eyes by a spider. Jack blindly felt around with his hands, trying to feel for something to grab a hold of.
The Funnel-Web spider is one of the most venomous spiders in the world, but its venom is not as fast-acting as that of the inland Taipan. Jack would suffer a lot more than his brother, but luckily the bites to the face and his evident physical exertion would mean that the venom would take about fifteen to twenty minutes to start taking effect. I estimate the same amount of time until death occurs. I had not accounted for blindness, but that was a welcome factor to the equation. I walked right up to the dithering fool as he leant against his bike for support, and kicked the vehicle over so it fell on top of him. The boy fell back, and the back of his head smashed into his helmet with a deafening crunch.
Okay, now my luck was way too good.
I didn’t even have to wait around to make sure he would die. Their father was not returning home until about midnight, and motorbike pants don’t have pocket holes. Not to mention the house was out of sight, for him, at least. The poor kid wasn’t going to get help before he succumbed to his injuries.
But at least my work here was done.
As I drove out of the property, the only thing I felt was disappointment that my time-schedule was half-an-hour inaccurate.
- - -
I just so happened to be out that night, working late, when I witnessed these two boys drag a pet dog from a house in my suburb. It was a large dog, female, Labrador cross. They threw the defenseless animal into the trunk of their car, and drove away. Intrigued, I followed them here.
Now I watched from a distance, with my night-vision binoculars, disgusted, as they proceeded to beat the dog with a pair of branches that appeared to be wrapped in barbed wire. They laughed and cursed as the dog struggled to escape. The first shot to the animal's lower back crippled it, forcing it to the ground as it fell awkwardly. It shook as if it was having a seizure, but I think it was just fear pulsating through the creature, meaning it was fully aware and able to feel the devastating pain being inflicted upon it. Defeated, bleeding and yelping, the two boys refused to let up. Subsequent blows left massive gashes in the skin as small tufts of flesh and fur fell to the ground as the animal attempted to crawl away on its front legs. After a few minutes, the animal's fur had gone from a beautiful golden-brown, to a sticky, red mess.
They didn’t stop there; pulling out a knife, they further mutilated the dog in its last moments of life. The boys began by slicing off the ears and nose, before trying to force the flesh into the dying animal's mouth. Finally, they ran the blade down the belly of the animal and flayed it like a piece of meat at a third-world abattoir. I couldn’t even tell at which point the creature died.
The mutilated corpse was pissed on by the boys, and dumped into a hole before they returned to their nearby house. I wanted to leave, but I was compelled to visit the scene of the crime.
I crossed the fence and walked through the darkness, inspecting my surroundings. There was a dried creek bed close to the hole, and in the distance my eyes could make out the shapes of a motorbike track. Finally, I arrived at the hole the Labrador was dumped into. It stunk of death, but when I turned on my torch, my worst fears were confirmed. Dumped in the hole were no less than twenty corpses consisting of cats and dogs, brutally mutilated in ways that my own sick mind had not even thought possible.
I don’t know why they had done it. I don’t know how they brought themselves to enjoy such a cruel act.
All I knew was that I had just found my next victims.
Written by Anarchic Operations