Brothers of Darkness

Chapter 3: Prelude Michael, Part 3

The sun was high in the sky when Michael stopped his work. He dropped the weed whacker to the ground and leaned against the house. I don't give a f**k what Pat says. I'm sick of this s**t.

He reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the cool metal of the gun. It was only a Colt Junior, snagged from his mother's purse, but it was enough to take care of Geoffrey if he needed to. Part of him hoped the f*****g butler got nosey. He could picture the self-righteous prick with a hole between his eyes.

Michael kicked the weed whacker for good measure, then marched toward the house. Instead of knocking on the side door, he threw it open and charged inside. He paused in the doorway to the next room, waiting, the gun drawn and ready in his nervous hand.

When Geoffrey didn't appear, Michael lowered the weapon and tried to come up with a plan. He didn't have a bag, and since he was alone he couldn't carry much. It would be better to find a couple of small things that were worth a lot.

He thought of the bejeweled weapons in the office, and hurried through the unfamiliar house, opening doors. When he finally discovered his destination, he also found the butler.

Geoffrey was hunched over the desk, a drawer opened, his eyes bulging with guilt and surprise. He was going through 'the master's' stuff, but Michael didn't care. He raised the gun and, before the startled butler could react, he pulled the trigger.

The sound was loud; louder than Michael expected. He stared, dumbfounded, and the butler stared back. Then Geoffrey looked down to where a red spot blossomed against his white shirt. With a strangled gasp, he clutched his bleeding chest and exclaimed, "Oh my God!" before he tumbled backwards and fell over the chair.

Michael held the gun out and noticed the barrel shook. Holy f**k. I shot him. I f*****g shot him. Oh my God.

He staggered back and dropped the gun. He could hear the butler moaning. Why is he making so much noise? Shut up! Shut up!

He hurried around the desk. Geoffrey lay half on his side, clutching his chest. Blood leaked between his fingers. Michael's hands clenched and unclenched and he looked around wildly. What should he do? Should he hit him in the head with something? His eyes landed on the silver sword on the wall and he thoughtlessly pulled it down.

He turned back to Geoffrey and raised the sword like a baseball bat. The butler choked and grabbed Michael's leg, smearing blood on his jeans. He stared at it; at the bright red against the pale blue denim. Geoffrey gasped out, "Help me."

Michael slammed him in the head with the flat of the blade. Geoffrey cried out as Michael hit him again and again and again. The room blurred and he lost track of it; lost track of himself. When he came back to reality he was shocked to see Geoffrey's face and head, beaten and sliced into a bloody pulp.

He backed away and dropped the sword to the floor. His arms were speckled with blood. Geoffrey's blood. This didn't feel like he thought. It had all gone wrong.

He ran from the room. His feet pounded down the corridor until he saw a bathroom. He ducked inside, his stomach heaving, but there was no toilet; only a sink and a bathtub. He turned in helpless circles. Bile gagged into his throat and mouth, and he lurched for the tub. The vomit hit with enough force to splash back. Just like Geoffrey's blood. The thought made him wretch harder.

When his stomach was empty he fell back on the floor, exhausted. He had to fix this. It was all f****d up and he had to fix it.

Wash away the blood, he told himself. He stood on shaking legs and turned on the sink. Fancy hand towels hung nearby. He wet them and savagely swiped at crimson that spotted his naked chest, arms, and face. Just get rid of the blood. It's okay. It's okay.

He dropped the ruined towel in the sink and stared into the mirror. Wild blue eyes stared back; eyes that didn't have a plan. He needed a plan. He'd killed someone. If he got caught it wouldn't be jail this time, but prison. He'd have to get out of the country. Maybe Mexico? But to do that he needed money.

Fuck!

He took a deep breath. Come on man, you're smart. You can do this. And he could. He was in a f*****g mansion surrounded by money. He needed to grab something and get out. But what? He couldn't stand the thought of going back to the office. f**k, there's stuff everywhere.

When his legs were steady, he followed the corridor back to the entrance hall. His eyes fell on the double French doors and the ballroom beyond. He thought of the mirrored wall and the secret door. If the stuff upstairs was worth a fortune, then what would be down there?

He felt along the smooth glass. "How the f**k do you open this? Come on!"

As if by command, something clicked and the door sprang open. He gave a soft cry of delight and ran down the dark narrow stairs. The light gave out before he reached the bottom and he stumbled when he hit the floor. He flicked his cigarette, and saw candles in massive golden holders flanking the door. After he lit one, he examined the room by the flickering light. It was plain, except for ten large wooden boxes, neatly arranged in rows. Excitement coursed through him as he thought about the contents. He envisioned gold, like treasure from a long forgotten children's cartoon.

He hurried to the first and pried open the lid. There was no gold inside, but a man with a pale face and closed eyes.

Holy s**t! He's dead!

Michael jumped back into the candleholder. It fell with a clatter and the room plunged into darkness. He fumbled his lighter to life in time to see a figure leering over him, mouth opened, fangs gleaming.

He grabbed the fallen candlestick and swung it at the guy's head. His attacker fell backwards, and Michael scrambled to his feet and up the stairs. He skidded through the ballroom and out the double back doors, to the sun drenched veranda. Only then did he look back to see the guy burst through the secret door, half of his head bashed in and bleeding.

Oh my God! How is he still walking? He should be dead!

The man saw him. With a fanged inhuman snarl, he lunged toward him, but stopped just before he reached the pool of sunlight. He gave a wordless cry of fury, then turned and shouted, "Geoffrey! Where the hell are you, you worthless piece of s**t? Geoffrey!"

Several more men appeared, storming through the secret door, fangs bared. Just like the first, they skidded to a halt at the edge of the sunlight.

Michael was frozen in place by terror, but when no attack came his muscles uncoiled. What the f**k? Why aren't they coming out here to get me?

He decided he didn't care why. With a final horrified look at the snarling crowd, he ran.