And then it came again, that barking laugh.
There's no reason to do it, part of him kept saying as he went to fetch the cleaver. Just shoot him in the head and be done with him. But another part of him was saying, Why not? What did it matter? He had come here with the intention of killing Borchert: why not kill him in this way?
And a third part of himself, the part that terrified him the most, was saying, What if Paul is right? What if I am God?
There will always be three of me from now on, he thought, or a third part of him thought, or a fourth part of him thought, and he shook his head.
He was back at the bed, holding the cleaver now, staring down at Borchert.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Go ahead," said Borchert, and Kline felt his hand raise the cleaver and then bring it down hard.
A neck, it turned out, was not nearly so easy as an elbow. Either that or the cleaver was duller than it had been, or Kline flinched when he delivered the blow, or it was not a clean blow to begin with. Or it was simply the fact that Borchert's neck, when compressed, was slightly wider than the cleaver's blade. It took a second blow, Borchert's mouth contorted already into a rictus, and then a third, but even once the spine was severed there was still a thick band of intact flesh, and finally he had to post his stump against Borchert's chin and push the head away from the neck so that the band of flesh grew taut and could be cut. Borchert's eyelids fluttered, fell still. There was blood everywhere.
He went to the door and tried to open it only to realize he was still holding the cleaver. He felt he had lived all this already, and dropped the cleaver. His guns too he took out, all three of them, and let them fall to the floor.
He started out into the hallway, found it deserted, and then had second thoughts and went back in. Gathering the cleaver, he slipped it into his belt. Borchert's head too he gathered, holding it by its sole clump of hair. And then he started out again.
II
How do you know the moment when you cease to be human? Is it the moment when you decide to carry a head before you by its hair, extended before you like a lantern, as if you are Diogenes in search of one just man? Or is it the moment where reality, previously a smooth surface one slides one's way along, begins to come in waves, for a moment altogether too much and then utterly absent? Or is it the moment when you begin opening doors, showing each man behind each door the head of his spiritual leader before killing him with the cleaver tucked into your belt? Or is it the moment when all these dead begin to talk to you in a dull, rumbling murmur? Or is it the moment when these same voices suddenly fade away and stop talking altogether, leaving you utterly alone?
I am remarkably calm, thought Kline, moving from room to room. I am doing remarkably well, he thought, considering.
Or was it the moment, one floor down, when he opened a door and saw a man missing various digits and limbs, a ten or an eleven, and showed him Borchert's head and then, instead of killing the man right away, spent some time positioning Borchert's head on the floor so that it was looking at the man, so that it would have to see what came next? That next being Kline groping the cleaver out of his belt and advancing forward with the cleaver raised as the man began to give hoarse cries and beg inarticulately for mercy.
By the time he opened the last door on the bottom floor of the building, by the time he had killed several dozen mutilates with the cleaver, he was figuring out ways to pretend to be human again. He was thinking of the money in the briefcase, what he might do with it once everyone else in the world was dead. He was thinking of Paul, of the Pauls, wondering whether Borchert had been right after all. He was considering what he would have to do next. Beneath these thoughts he could feel the writhing motion of the limbs and torsos and heads trying to scuttle away from him-here, the rising of a bloody head, there the shock and rapid seep of an open and fresh wound filling with blood, a bluish-white fist of bone torn from its socket, the reduction of bodies to spongy meat and slicks of blood and shattered, drying bone. How many? he wondered, and found himself unable to count them out, nor even quite able to grasp how he had moved from room to room: left with little beyond the act of positioning Borchert's head and then lifting the cleaver high, all of it starting to overlap with the other instances when he had raised a cleaver and brought it down upon himself. And this, indeed, was the most terrible thing of alclass="underline" each blow he sunk into an arm or a leg or a chest or a head-each of these blows in any case which he could remember-he had felt going into his own body as well.
"Almost over," he said to Borchert's head, "almost done," and then wondered idly when the head would start to talk back.
He opened the front door. It was still dark outside, the night cloudless and with no moon, the stars bright. The guard was still there, his body lying beside the fence, still motionless but breathing, still staring into the air. Kline stepped gingerly around him.
He followed the path back to the rest of the complex, moving cautiously until he was among the larger houses. Once he nearly crossed paths with a guard and was forced to press himself between some bushes and a house's wall until the man had passed. But quickly he was following Borchert's directions again, and soon was standing outside Ramse's door.
He tried the door and found it locked. There was a stained glass panel on the top portion of the door and he broke it out with Borchert's head, sweeping the glass off the casement with the side of Borchert's face. He pushed the head in and heard it thump softly on the floor. He managed to steady himself on the edge of the doorframe enough to get one foot up and onto the doorhandle, and then grabbed the edge of the broken panel and pulled himself up, and then reached in deep through the panel and managed to unlock the door. A moment later he was inside.
He turned on the bedside lamp then stood beside the bed, watching Ramse sleep. He seemed peaceful, serene, his face as pale and motionless as if made of wax. It was almost a shame to wake him.
He balanced Borchert's head on the nightstand, facing away from the bed. Tugging the cleaver from his belt, he sat down on the edge of the mattress.
"Ramse," he said, "Wake up."
Ramse's face scrunched, going from wax to flesh then back again. His eyes fluttered a little then opened, remaining unfocused but slowly coming together on Kline's face. At first they just stared, and then a dull sluggish fear began to build behind them.
"It's all right, Ramse," said Kline. "It's me, Kline." More or less, he thought.
"That's what I'm afraid of," said Ramse, voice still hoarse with sleep.
"No reason to be afraid," said Kline.
"What happened to you?" asked Ramse. "Are you dead?"
Kline looked down, saw his blood-soaked chest. "Nothing happened to me," he said. "I'm what happened to them."
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Ramse, voice rising, and Kline gestured to the bedside table.
"There's part of it," Kline said.
Ramse turned and saw the back of Borchert's head. He tried to speak but it came out in a shriek. Kline lifted his cleaver and shook his head and Ramse stopped. He looked back to the head, swallowed hard.
"Is it Gous?" he said, and looked like he was going to cry.
"Of course not," said Kline. "It's Borchert."