Madness’ Sole Soul: A Short Story

Madness’ Sole Soul

A Short Story by Robert J. S. T. McCartney

 

“I’m sorry, it has to be this way,” he remembered his mother saying. She left him—left them all. Now, they were all being hunted down by an unknown person (or maybe organization?). Rumor was that his mother was collecting other family members to help her purge those that were left and would get in her way of officially taking over the family since his father’s untimely demise. The lands, she believed were hers; as was the town. It was her birthright. That even though the past had tarnished what should have been regulated to her—she was persistent on correcting. Everything would return to her: the land, the town, the family name—everything. It would only be a matter of time until he would perish. So, he supposed on the issue.

It was true, she had left his step-father for an old fling from the “glory days” or what have you. Perhaps to gain leverage in use against her remaining members of the Hessen household. Though he never saw eye to eye with the man he came to acknowledge as a father figure in his life, he felt sorry for him. Vengeance, karma, these things have a way of working out. Order must be maintained in the universe. Time will work its hands the way it sees fit.

The day had come—one he had anticipated. The hitmen (or so he alleged) had come for the step-father, for him, for the rest of them.

“You need to get out of here, John. I can deal with them.” The young man steeled himself with a knife in hand. “Run, run as fast as you can. Don’t look back.”

“What you’re talking about is madness, Eric. Your mother could never do such a thing! Not to us, especially, to you.” John was flabbergasted at the information that had been collected and evidence that suggested his wife had, indeed, put a price on his head and the rest of the family.

“Go before it’s too late! There’s no time to argue. I know you’re not my real father, but I do look up to you like one.” Eric gripped the knife tighter as he clenched his jaw. John nodded and gathered a few things, before hurrying straight out the back door.

Out front, Eric heard an engine approaching. He opened the massive oak door to see a black SUV coming up the drive to the estate. “Typical fashion,” Eric mumbled aloud before closing the door.

He peeked out the window to see the occupants disperse from the vehicle. He knew them all. “My Uncles? Aunts?” He noted two more vehicles coming to the estate. “This…cannot be good,” he said.

A voice came from behind him. “Hello, dear brother.”

Sister.

“Hello, dear sister,” Eric replied, still peeking out the window. “Quite the family reunion we have today; unannounced in fact. Any reason as to why?”

His sister grimaced. “Did you not hear? There’s a high price for you and ‘dad.’ We are all here to collect—it’s nothing personal. I could use the money to take care of a lot of things.”

Eric sighed. “You were always greedy. We have vast wealth as it is and yet, you squander it.” His words struck a nerve. “You do know mother will only kill you after you kill John and I, don’t you?”

“I am aware of that. I have taken precautions. I’m afraid John is already. . .disposed. He didn’t get very far,” she smiled.

Eric grit his teeth. “The man was hardly any threat, let alone needed to be involved. You could have spared him, you cold-hearted bitch.”

“Please, I have been called worse,” his sister laughed.

“And soon you will be dead, all of you. I will make sure of it—mom included. I won’t let any of you live anymore.”

“Bold words, little brother, but remember I am older,” she replied sharply.

“Remember, I planned ahead,” he grinned.

Eric’s sister pulled out a knife of her own and motioned to attack him. “At least you will die with some honor, bitch.” He quickly disarmed her and slashed her arm; sending her to recoil in pain.

“You little bastard,” she screamed.

Eric moved in hastily and stabbed her in the gut and slashed upward, bringing her to her knees and to be embraced by death.

“Sorry, Julie, but it’s nothing personal,” Eric said as he twisted the blade once more into her neck.

The door opened and in came the rest of the family: his aunts, uncles, cousins, and his mother.

“Well, you certainly save us the time in having to find you, son,” his mother stated.

“Mom…”

She looked over at the dead body of her daughter. “I see you took care of your sister. Good job, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree alright.”

“You all are ridiculous. Acting together to kill another of your family? For what? For money? Land? You will all stop at nothing after this matter is settled to make sure you solely get all of it.” Eric shook his head. “Your greed consumes you.” He pointed to his mother. “Your whore ways and betrayal to this family will be your undoing, dear mother. I will kill you all.”

His mother laughed. “You sound just like your grandfather. He used to believe we had some ‘disease’ within us that drove us mad. Granted, that’s what got him locked up. As cunning as he was, he was no match for me. It’s just human nature, sweetie. Kill or be killed.”

Everyone eyed one another, uncertain of who would betray who.

“Kill him,” Eric’s mother ordered.

The cousins were the first to swarm him, and they were the first to die. He effortlessly slaughtered them and left them dead on the floor. Then came his aunts. The one that had a change of heart was only to be stabbed in the back by his mother. They too fell in the bloody heap that was amassing in the house’s grand foyer.

Three uncles and Eric’s mother remained. They spread out around him and slowly motioned towards him. “I wish you a merciless death, dear uncles,” Eric said as he went after his more overweight uncle. He ran and leaped at the man, stabbing him in the neck and under the jaw. Collapsing atop him, Eric stabbed him a few more times in the chest before rolling off him and readying for another attack. The next attacker came, and Eric disarmed him and stabbing him with his own blade; then used his body as a shield against his other attack. He slid on the ground and slit the Achilles tendons of his last uncle, and then sliced up his backside.

“Mother, you are all that remain. It appears things did not go as you had hoped,” said Eric.

“On the contrary, honey. You did the legwork for me,” Eric’s mother replied. She then drew a small pistol from behind her.

She smiled menacingly. “Never bring a knife to a gunfight, sweetie. Thank you for getting rid of everyone for me.”

Eric reached behind him and withdrew his gun and shot his mother in the chest several times, “I knew you would.”

He approached his fast-dying mother’s side. “The only difference, mom, is that I didn’t hesitate and make a big speech before I pulled the trigger. Perhaps now you can be at rest.” He kissed her on the cheek and looked at her dimming green eyes. “I love you,” and then pointed the gun at her head and pulled the trigger once more.

One by one, he went around to each family member and shot them in the head. He called the cleaning service that the family used in cases of messes like these. He gave them all a proper burial, despite them having tried to kill him. Ownership and duty fell to him now. Eric was the lord of the manor, the land, and town that came with it. He was the sole survivor of Hessen Estate Massacre.

He was granted everything, although the attorney thought it to be proper to read the wills and testaments of the deceased. Sifting through the mess, Eric had found a piece of paper that clarified more things for him. He handed it to the lawyer.

Clearing his throat, the lawyer read aloud. “It is hereby declared that under article nine, sub-article three, clause eleven, that in the event of the purge of the household, all assets fall to the surviving heir. Debts will be settled with the provided fund, and any outstanding family members outside of second cousins will cease any violent interaction. Half siblings hold no right, nor just cause, and are therefore exempt of any claim to the family name, land, or township. If so claim is ever made, they will be disbarred, and the assets will become forfeit to the state.”

Eric sighed at this. The lawyer shook his hand and eventually left.

In due course, Eric readied himself to leave the house for good. As he is about to close the door, one by one, his family all appeared before him.

“Eric, can you forgive us,” his mother asked.

“We are sorry. . . We should have been a better family,” an aunt stated.

“Time wasted. . .” an uncle added.

“We all could have been better,” his sister agreed.

“No, it was my fault,” he said. They all looked to him, puzzled. He returned their gaze in spite and anger. “It was my fault. . .for being so weak. You may haunt me and my dreams, but you cannot escape your damnation. Suffer your fates, you wretched kin.” The house trembled and shook, and the spirits vanished; returning to their relics, paintings, and pictures. Slowly he pulled the door behind him, closing and leaving behind it all.

Eric took a seat outside in a rocking chair and rocked in it. He noted the gray sky that seemed to have plagued the day. He sighed aloud.

The family car and chauffer pulled up. He noted his serviceman and driver in black attire, with two cousins that laid claim of wanting no involvement of what had transpired. Slowly, he got his pale self, up and ventured to the car.

The driver motioned for the cousins to get in the car. Eric remembered the driver had made prior claims before that he shared his distaste for the twin cousins. He always thought they were up to no good. To spur a change in the young master’s mood, the driver accelerated and would leave a short distance between them and the car.

“Stop, Thomas. Let them in,” Eric stated.

“Thank you, Eric,” replied the one cousin who sat in front of him. The other cousin nodded and sat next to Eric. The car then rumbled away from the estate.

Soon, down the driveway, the cousin who sat next to Eric, took out a knife and slit his throat, then his brother’s throat, and then his own throat. He had tried to strike the driver but was held back by the serviceman in the back.

“Is he alright, Bennie,” Thomas asked the man in the back who applied a handkerchief to Eric’s neck. “Drive—drive to the bloody hospital!” Bennie looked back down at the bloodied Eric. “Put pressure on it! Hold it, young master!”

Eric could feel the warmth slowly leaving him. He also felt the heat of his dead cousin departing him as well.

“Faster,” Eric gasped.

Eric looked at the rearview mirror from the backseat. Who he saw was not his reflection, but rather his grandfather’s. “Grandpa?”

 “Eric, do you see now? Do you see why I did what I did?” Sadness overcame the old man’s wrinkled face. “I loved my family. Honestly, I did. I loved you all. But what I saw—what I knew that was harbored deep within, I knew it was only a matter of time. Even when shown kindness, we’ve all turned on one another. You know it well, my grandson. We carry a sickness—one that spreads like a plague. It must be contained, Eric. It must be put down.

Eric nodded. “I understand. I will purge them all. I will carry this mantle—this burden. For our family.”

His grandfather smiled and then vanished into nothingness. Eric looked out the window to the cloudy sky and the buzzing street corners. He closed his eyes and greeted the darkness.

Some time passed, Eric stared out at the gardens at the hospital. The sun shined brilliantly everywhere. He caught a glimpse of himself, and his family behind him, all mourning. He grinned as he lightly rubbed his bandaged neck. “I’m not dead yet.”

It begins again. This time the madness will be contained.

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The Chronic Suicidalist is Free This Christmas. Get Your Free Copy!

Free, just in time for Christmas is the novella The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal for Amazon Kindle.

You can secure your copy via the link above in its wondrous glory, starting December 22nd until December 26th. You can also check out the new hardcover art that is available, in comparison to its predecessor (which is available in digital and paperback).

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There will be other free deals in time. However, this is the deal you are looking for. Be sure to get your free copy this holiday season for yourself, for a friend, or any other reader on your Naughty or Nice List.

Bob likes the Naughty List.  😉

If someone you know and love knows what it’s like to be the sad man, and what it’s like to be down on their luck, this book is for them. If they want a laugh, this book is also for them. If they secretly want the world to burn and think a deranged man who kills himself multiple times a day can do it, this book is for them. Plus, it’s also free. It’s also fiction. Free fiction that combines dark humor, action, suspense, science fiction, bewilderment, and what the fuck just happened, ALL IN ONE! It’s like getting a Dell, but without the spam and malware, that’s pre-installed.

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Fantastic descriptions of what it would be like to wake up with no consequences.

Realization that this is fiction and that Bob is a meme and has his arms and legs, and still gets around quite well.

Eagerly hope that Bob doesn’t die in the end.

Everlasting love and friendship are for the birds. This is Bob’s story, and he’s sticking to it.

If you didn’t see that subliminal message that was pretty obvious, then I don’t know what to tell you. In any case, face the void with Bob at the helm. We’re crashing this ship right into your face, and infiltrating your mind with the asinine.

Pick up The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal for free, starting December 22nd — 26th, 2017.

To infinity and next time…and also wishing you an A.B.Normal holiday season.

RJM

New Book Coming Soon! The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal

This entry was originally posted on A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group’s website, where I write and contribute… a lot. 

The Chronic Suicidal is Coming Soon Q3/4 2017

Hey, folks.

As some of you may have seen on Facebook or Twitter, we’re getting ready for the great coming of Bob, the Chronic Suicidal.

The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal will be on sale later this year in all formats (ebook, print, and hardcover). Price, cover, and more will be released soon.

There will be a limited batch of signed copies on hand, with a contest set to claim them. Contest specifications, rules, and such are TBA, and are subject to change on a whim.

As always, when you purchase a print copy, you’ll get the Kindle version for free.

There will also be “Bob” merchandise. More on that later.

I know, I know, that’s a lot of “later” talk… but trust me, you’re gonna love his tale.

For now, you can read the raw story, as it unfolded, here on A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group.

Please remember, this is fiction. It’s an entertainment tale; a take on a fictitious entity. We do not support or encourage suicide. We are not doctors or professionals in the field of medicine or mental psychology or psychosis. If you’re in need of help, please contact a licensed practitioner or contact the Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255, or go to Suicide Lifeline Prevention.

We look forward to bringing you another exciting story to places around the world.

I invite you to stay tuned for more.

Until next time,

RJM

The New Boston and Middleton, MA. Investigations: Retribution

"Shopping Carts" Photo by Dan4th Nicholas. Dan4th Nicholas has no affiliation with me or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

Photo by Dan4th Nicholas. Dan4th Nicholas has no affiliation with me or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

The New Boston and Middleton, MA Investigations: Retribution

[Roland]

By Robert J. S. T. McCartney


His gaze fell upon his reflection in the red pick-up truck’s rearview mirror. Sweat beaded on his dark brow. A pair of bright verdant eyes flickered with each hesitant blink; shifting from the outside world back to the confines of the driver’s seat. Silvered hair with sparse strands of black peppered the man’s scalp. His clean-shaven face was wrinkled with the creases of age and told of a long line of police experience, a veteran—married to no one (not anymore) but to the force, and was seeking justice.

He closed his eyes and prepared himself for what was about to unfold. As he opened them, he saw the last of the few on the list wander into the supermarket.

Well, here we go.

He wagered a glance at the discarded Middleton Police badge: Roland Johnson. The name was hardly visible anymore, scuffed, scratched, battered, and broken. He grunted as he leaned over to open the glove box. and retrieve his Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum revolver* from its resting grounds. He inconspicuously glanced around to make sure no one was watching—save for the possibility of the security cameras, but that didn’t matter. He stepped outside and closed the driver’s door behind him.

There’s no turning back now. You gotta hold it together Roland. It’s just better this way.

He took in a few heavy breaths and adjusted his long sandy brown overcoat. Underneath, his black attire laid hidden (save for his black dress shoes and slacks that peeked out with each step) and the secrets of a plan that no one knew—except for the one piece of paper that was left behind to a friend. He was a good friend and a hell of a good cop.

They’ll never understand, but I sure hope you do, Dana.

His face was beginning to show the strain of his plan. His sweat became tainted with uneasiness. It befouled the once good man and began to soak and elaborate the coaxed mask. He fixed his holster under his coat and continued with his stride of redemption and retribution.

He wrinkled his brow under the bright golden eye that loomed up high above. A swift gust of wind of the summer day cut into him, ruffling the short hair of the man. He couldn’t help but glance up at the sky: pure azure, with not a single cloud in the sky. It was the last bit of bliss he could afford.

Inside, footsteps paraded about—marching to and from the marketplace. Roland’s eyes watched everyone as he made his way in, with his hands deep in his pockets.

“Hello, sir. Good afternoon.” A soft, grandmotherly voice peeped from the short cotton-tipped elderly woman, as she greeted customers that wandered in, and said goodbye as they left. Her gray eyes hinted with a smile, but under the stress of the wrinkles and the knowing of how hard the economy was—he didn’t know if it was true or just another piss poor excuse to make a buck. Either way, he gave a nod to the elder, and flashed a brief smile, while hurrying past. She wasn’t his intention, none of the other people were.

The marketplace had sprawled since the last time he’d seen it. The produce had more than doubled, with rows upon rows of fresh fruits and vegetables that formed makeshift barricades.

Just like cattle. Herding all of us.

The produce adjoined the deli and bakery, while the back end of the bakery met with the meat and frozen foods departments. The place seemed to measure for hundreds of yards. His eyes lazily drifted off towards the general merchandise side of the store. He shook his head to disregard the notion, and to maintain focus on his objective. His eyes continued to scan around, searching for the few that he had told to meet at the designated location. A group of familiar people all shuffled about the produce section. Some were making eye contact with one another, while some were uncertain of the meaning behind this escapade, looking about as to who summoned them all.

There were six in all—save for the unannounced guest of honor. Roland’s eyes recounted each one, his mind pulling the folder for each person.

Charles Deveau, 46, White male, 6′ 4”, 330 lbs. A child predator. Thus far, he has attacked 32 children; both male and female. He has a connection with the police department. I have a hunch on who. The pattern as of late has been irregular. He has been on a four-day hiatus, due to suspicious activity. Detective’s Conway and Deupree have been tracking. It’s too long to wait. He’ll strike again soon. I know it.

Huey Porter, 52, White male, 5′ 9”, 140 lbs. Terminal Lung Cancer. Carries an oxygen tank. He commits small time acts to try and be killed via cop suicide. He has taken out a $500,000 life insurance policy, with the children as beneficiaries. He’s tried everything. I feel for the guy. I’ve been a friend of his for 30 years. This method is the only way I can help.

Terra Lhangley, 36, White female, 5′ 4”, 120 lbs. She is a chronic nymphomaniac; spreading HIV and AIDS to partners, and never tells them. To date, she has infected over 230 individuals and their partners—and the number continues to grow. Most have taken their lives or committed acts of violence, or further, spread the disease.

Michael Stevens, 45, Black male, 6′ 4”, 171 lbs. Michael has an obsession of stealing. He’s stolen almost everything: electronics, cars, etc. He’s also taken the homes of his victims. A class A+ fraudster, he’s gone up—rather down—to stealing the lives of those in his path. He’s claimed 19 lives; rerouting all monetary gain, and removed any and all links to any of the victims.

Benjamin Clarence, 79, White male, 5′ 6”, 156 lbs. a.k.a. “Bennie the Nipple Ripper.” Preys on females that wander alone at night, or in desolate areas. Has a fetish for removing the nipples of his sexually assaulted victims. Sometimes changes from clean removal with a knife or blade to a cheese grater. Has confessed to…taking delight in consuming the leftovers. It could be months for him to go on trial. Ben has posted bail and was garnished a favor from the same connection as Deveau.

Tiffany Kruger, 29, Black female, 5′ 3”, 113 lbs. Murdered her family, and is reaping all the benefits. All plausible evidence she had attempted to destroy. Detectives Conway and Deupree have some remainder of proof. I have what is leftover in my safe. Was placed on bail, and has since been posted. I’m not letting her get away that easy.

Anita Dalton (formerly Timothy Diego), 36, Hispanic female, 5′ 3”, 114 lbs. Transgender; Tim is accused of butchering his family, selling the body parts to black market buyers. With these proceeds, he funded his gender change operation. Also preys on unsuspecting men on dates, prostitution, and has a fetish with removing the penis and testicles. She needs to be stopped—permanently.

He opened his eyes. They were all here. They had all showed up, just as he had planned. He could see them starting to intermingle with one another now. He knew he had to act fast. Now.

I don’t want any of them to escape.

Roland’s right hand slid into his inner coat pocket and removed a dull pewter cigarette case. He pulled out the last cigarette and brought it up to his dry lips. His left hand searched another pocket and found a silvered zippo. He brought it up in a swift, fluid motion, lighting the hairs of the cigarette. He inhaled deep and closed his eyes—savoring the moment. He foretold of how the events were going to unfold. His moment of foresight was interrupted by a supermarket employee.

The deep voice stirred him. “Sir, you can’t smoke in here! Please, extinguish it, or go outside.”

Roland frowned, his eyes still closed.

He sighed. “I am going to say this once—go call the police. Tell them…six people have been murdered here.” Roland slowly opened his eyes and gazed up at the ceiling of the supermarket—observing it’s rather dull almond fixtures, pipes, and lines that sprawled everywhere.

The male employee began to get hysterical. “Wha—what do you mean? Murder? What murder?”

“It’s alright…just stay calm…and go call the police.” Roland’s gaze drifted down, scanning over all the people. “It’s for the greater good.”

The employee mumbled, “The greater good?” as he scurried off in haste, leaving Roland to smirk to himself.

He started to walk towards the group on his list. They all looked at him, locking eyes, one by one. Some eyes were in such a demonic twist, while others dealt in bloodshed, while the last was sad, in pain…pitiful.

“Who the hell are you?” Tiffany remarked the question pressing—drilling for an answer.

Roland smiled, “Just the man who posted your bail.”

“Really now? I don’t suppose you posted mine too?” Anita cocked her hip, her lips cracked to a crooked grin.

“Why, yes. In fact, I posted everyone’s.” Roland began to pace, his hands behind him. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve gathered you all here for a significant undertaking. You’re all in grave danger, and we need to remedy that situation. So, it’s imperative that we decide…” he stopped with his back to them all, “which one of you will be the first to die.”

All of their looks changed to such mixed annotations: anger, horror, absolute shock, except for Huey.

“Roland, please. . .” Huey whispered among the group.

“Huey, yours shall be merciful. No matter whether you are first, or the last.” Roland assured.

“Roland?! You’re that stalking, no good, piece of shit cop! Ho ho, oh no! No! Nuh uh, there ain’t no fucking way I will not be dying to some has-been, who’s been intent on making MY LIFE a living hell!” Charles rebuked, and started to storm towards Roland.

Roland turned around, and in an amazing display, withdrew his gun of righteousness; his coat unfurled, and twirled, much like the dramatic performance of an old Western shootout.

It was long past that now, Roland had already decided the order. The people around in the market hadn’t even caught on to the public execution in progress. Maybe it was better that they saw what happened to criminals in public.

A thunderous roar rang out within the store, and to that end, Charles laid crumpled and discarded on the glossy almond tile, next to the display of onions. Horror and shock remained on his face. Just like those whom he assaulted. Blood poured from the back of his skull onto the tile. Roland aimed at the next one—Terra. The shots started to become quicker, more precise, and more humane—perhaps too humane. One by one they began to fall: Terra, Tiffany—they even tried to run! He fired upon their malicious heads, sending their evil souls to Hell. Anita jumped over a display of assorted peppers attempting to spare a moment. People rushed for the exit, the march of a thousand terrified souls.

“Hiding won’t save you. Nothing can.” He slowly walked behind the display, crouching. “Give the devil my regards.” Anita’s eyes widened, her instinct forced her erect to try and run. It was too late. Her body dropped and slid across the tile, colliding into the base of a meat display. He turned his arm towards the oncoming shadow. “Eager, aren’t we?” He shot a round through Benjamin’s skull, dropping him.

Michael had tried to run but saw it was inevitable. The mighty hawk’s gaze fell upon him now. He clung to Huey, hiding behind the decrepit old man.

“Y—you wouldn’t shoot your friend would you?!” He cried behind the smiling frail man.

“You’re pathetic…hiding behind a dying man.” Roland slowly approached the remaining two. “My friend…I am sorry it couldn’t have ended another way.”

Huey’s smile grew. “It is better this way. Everything’s in place. I just ask I be the last.”

“You’re fucking crazy man, fucking crazy! You’d kill your own friend?! What the hell is wrong with you?!” Michael shrieked.

Roland nodded, “So be it.” With a quick draw and sheer precision, he fired at Michael’s head. Michael collapsed behind Huey, clinging to his oxygen tank.

Roland approached Huey. “Thank you.” The two shook hands, then hugged. Best of friends until the end.

Huey knelt before Roland, while Roland had closed his eyes. “Goodbye…old friend.”

His finger was hesitant at first. And then a gunshot thundered from within the store, followed by the warm caress of blood that splattered against him. He opened his eyes slowly to see Huey sprawled in a bloody mess with that bright smile still on his face.

Outside, squad cars had surrounded the building. Red, white, and blue patriotically waltzed in the parking lot. The armed men and women of the law all drew their weapons towards the doors. Two familiar men stood out there with distraught looks on their faces. Roland knew them well.

Dana…Walter…

Dana and Walter were veterans like him, while the pair were up and comers in the Homicide division. Dana—thin, with a broad square face, dark hair, and pale blue eyes. While Walter was slightly overweight, with salt and peppered hair, green eyes, and square glasses…he was considered a god amongst foodies.

He smiled to himself, at least he was in good company now. He loaded the last two bullets into the revolver, just as he had planned it. He began his walk of remembrance, glancing down at the bodies of his friend and the evil he had slain. Roland emptied his coat pocket and placed a piece of paper on Terra’s body, “CONTAGIOUS, BIOHAZARD” in large letters.

“Roland Johnson! Come out with your hands up!” An officer he hadn’t known shouted on the P.A.

He grunted as he walked to the doors. He scanned the army through the doors, searching, waiting.

Ah, there he is.

Sargent Ted Matthers, 52, White male, 6′ 0”, 158 lbs. Accomplice to Charles, and Benjamin. Suspected of having helped rid evidence related to said case and several others. I’ve found incriminating evidence that supports this, as well as a recording that places him and Charles at several locations of attacks. Also, deals in sex trafficking. I have a ledger where he sold his daughters, Doreen, and Mona. He’s also responsible for ordering the hit on Tina…Roland sighed. This one needs to be put down.

“Roland! Come out! You are surrounded!”

He disregarded the taunts, waiting to see if Ted made a move. Sure enough, he saw him strap on a bulletproof vest and start making his way towards the door.

The other officers lowered their guns, watching as the lone cop wandered in alone.

Roland stood with his back to Ted. Visualizing him in his mind: what he thought, what he was going to say and do.

“I see you’ve been busy. That’s a shame really. What a waste of a good cop.” Ted mumbled as he scanned the scene. It was a massacre, and he knew he stood no chance.

Still fit for as old as he was: large build. He had given up on his balding—shaving his blond head entirely. Cold blue eyes stared back at him, with a numb expression on his face. The man was an incomprehensible piece of evil. Roland never knew why, nor did he care to know now. All he knew was he was about to put an end to it and get the justice so many had been denied.

“I don’t need your patronization, Ted. You know what this is about.” Roland snapped back.

Ted grinned. “I suppose so. How about this? You give me the ledger, and we’ll work the rest out.”

Roland shook his head. “I know how you operate. It’s not going to end like that.”

Ted cocked his head. “Oh? How is it then?”

“Like this…” Roland drew his gun, turned, and fired.

Ted had already had his gun aimed, and was able to get one shot off. The bullet of righteous fury bored its way into the skull of Sgt. Ted Matthers. While Ted’s shot missed Roland—due to his step-and-turn technique. Ted dropped to the floor, blood splattering against the market’s doors.

The army of royal blue outside raised their arms and began to unleash hell.

“Hold your fire! Hold your goddamn fire, I said!” Detective Dana Deupree yelled.

“For crying out loud! HOLD YOUR GODDAMN FIRE!” Detective Walter Conway bellowed.

It was of no use. Bullets flew and whizzed by Roland.

Horrible aim the lot of them, Roland thought. Like a bunch of Stormtroopers. He smirked to himself.

The glass in the front shattered, while bullets ricocheted off the metal of the ceiling and doors. A few finally found their way into Roland’s legs and torso. He fell to his knees, still holding on to his hammer of righteousness. He peered out into the eyes of Dana, and Walter. Both shook their heads, and flailed their arms, mouthing the word “no.” They attempted to run vainly into the hail of gunfire.

Roland closed his eyes, while the concert of deafening thunder rolled on. Life began to play on his mind’s reel. Everything that was a memory started to replay one final time. He remembered the day’s sun that hung up high and of Huey. All the good times, and all the fun he had working with the only three people he could have regarded as real true friends. Of his lost love and the injustice that had been done to him. Retribution was at its end. His task, his righting the wrongs, even if it was vigilante justice. Where the alleged system of Justice had failed so many.

As the gunfire stopped, Dana and Walter encroached on the threshold of the supermarket. Outside, one last gunshot echoed. Roland slumped over lifelessly to the ground. The too late duo approached their fallen friend, their hands running over their faces, through their hair—shaking their heads in disbelief.

“Goddamn it, Roland!” Dana shouted while Walter sighed aloud.

The blue blob began to descend upon the supermarket, the 20-some guns still aimed at the freshly slain detective, while white uniforms began to intervene and begin their process of elimination.

******

Elsewhere in Middleton, a Postal Service Agent approached Dana’s home, with a manila envelope addressed to him, from Roland, in their hands. The word URGENT in bold was stamped on both the front and back. The postal worker then trotted off the steps after completing their task, oblivious to the day’s transpired events.


Ths was originally published under the A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group website.
Retribution is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
*In case any are wondering, it is a 6.5″ barrel length S&W .44 Magnum revolver. Yes, he only had eight bullets, and yes, he was that confident. “Either hit your mark or die trying,” was his motto.

Who? Me?

"Bedroom Door Knob 2" Photo by Cathy Kaplan. Cathy Kaplan has no affiliation with me or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

Photo by Cathy Kaplan. Cathy Kaplan has no affiliation with me or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

It was a dark and cool night. The kind where the stars littered the sky with their brilliance. The wind was absent while the air was chilled from the rain some time ago.

A man stirred within a home, set in the middle of a street. He was restless and parched. He cautiously made his way into the kitchen in the dark. He stopped before the fridge and rubbed his young green eyes; fatigue had long been set. He scratched the back of his scalp, the mess of blond hair peeked through the cracks of his fingertips.

So tired, he thought, man, I’m so tired. I really hope they’re late picking us up. I’ve barely had any sleep. The man thought to himself as he let out a muffled yawn.

He reached into the fridge, the light blinding him temporarily, searching for a bottle of whiskey. His pale hand finally caught reminiscence of the bottle marked with “Jack Daniels.” He grinned to himself as he found his friend and confidant.

He then heard a creak outside, on what he believed to be the deck to the backyard. He chuckled to himself as he was so easily startled.

Probably an animal again, he thought.

As gravity maintained its order, closing the fridge door behind the man, he walked across the kitchen into the living room. His silhouette elongated his tall figure above the wall and ceiling. He picked up the empty glass on the dark oval coffee table, then retreated back to the kitchen. He then heard another creak…this time on the front porch.

Okay, that’s a little too freaky…hmm…

The man put the glass and bottle of whiskey down on the kitchen counter top, and walked cautiously to the front window and peered out into the night. Nothing. . . He saw nothing on the doorstep, nor in view, but the street and neighbors’ lights. He shrugged it off, and went back to the counter where his drink sat…waiting.

He poured a glassful and began drinking the contents immediately. He looked down at the bottle of empty pills. Shortly thereafter, he heard an ominous creaking on the deck again, followed by a tapping on the window. The tapping increased exponentially, causing him to grow fearful.

It all seemed too coincidental.

What the hell?

He reached for his handgun and a hunting knife that were stored high above in a kitchen cabinet. Slowly, he crept towards the back door, passing the laundry, and bathroom…the path lit only by sporadic nightlights. He approached the back door, and cautiously unlocked the door. He opened it and found…nothing. Nothing but the twilight greeted him, the cool air rushing against his warm face. He closed the door and locked it tight, just as he had found it, and withdrew his weapons. He stumbled back through the house, where he had heard the tapping on the window. He pulled back the curtains…nothing. Nothing was there but the night.

I must be really tired…or maybe it’s the pills…

He smirked, and let out another deep yawn.

He walked through the living room, and made way to his daughter’s, and his wife’s bedrooms…both slept soundly. As he went to go check on his daughter again, only to just turn a light off, he heard the same haunting sounds. . .

This time, he went to the window of his daughter’s room and drew back the curtains. To his horror, several groups of eyes fixated upon him—twitching, blinking, glaring—with more slowly populating outside the window pane.

He closed the curtains with haste…masking whatever was out there. The tapping then evolved into scraping…not only at the windows but at the doors all over the house—the sound was becoming louder with every passing moment. The young man scooped up his slumbering daughter and rushed her to his and his wife’s room. He urgently woke her and told her what events were taking place outside, and to call 911.

As his wife reached for the telephone and dialed, there was only static, and a mocking laughter that could be heard on the other end of the line. She even tried with the cell phone, only to find it yielding the same results. The laughter began to whisper. . .

“No—o one ca—n s—ave you.”

She dropped the phone one the ground as it cackled maniacally back at their apparent impending doom. Here they found themselves alone…trapped. The scraping and tapping became louder…near deafening and more forceful. The man feared for his family, for whatever was outside, wanting to try and get in, would surely kill them all unmercifully.

The thought became apparent to him then. If I’m going to die…I’m going to die defending them…

The young man readied his weapons, as he took a final glance back at his horrified wife and still slumbering child, “Stay here!”

He made his way to his daughter’s window and slid it open. He slashed wildly and blindly at whatever was outside the window. There was a loud shriek, followed by a thud on the pavement. The man then shut the window and rushed to the front door. He took a breath and then quickly unlocked the front door, and fired a few shots from his handgun out into the night. Screams of again were heard, followed by a tremendous weight that was sent crashing to the ground. The man closed the door and bolted it shut.

After several moments, the haunting ended. . . The man mustered the courage to open the door, to see just what it was that was plaguing him and his family at this hour. The horror of his life came to pass as to what he found on his doorstep. There laid the familiar silhouette of a man…a shot to the chest, and two shots in his head. In his arms, the man cradled a small girl who, by the looks, had seized up…and a hole that bored through her small head into the man’s heart. Both laid dead in a bloody mess. The young man ran out and checked the side of his house where his daughter’s window shared with the driveway. He found another familiar silhouette… .this one of a woman—dead—her body slashed up, and her throat slit. In her hand, she held a small pebble, bloodied from her own blood.

The man panicked at the sight before his eyes and rushed back towards the entrance of his house. Out front, there was a red sedan—the insides were torn, battered, and smashed to hell. He stumbled through the darkness, back into his home to tell his wife of what he found. He entered his home, and made his way to find his wife and daughter—both dead. . . His wife’s throat was slit while his daughter laid with a hole in her small head.

No…No…N—no no no no!

His eyes widened, and he collapsed to his knees before his bed.

Did…did…did I? No—no…I.

He then rushed to his daughter’s room and gazed out the misty twilight where the familiar woman laid. He found…nothing. He ran back to his wife and daughter. The door to the bedroom was now closed…whereas…when he left it, it was open. 

Slowly, he tapped on the door and motioned to open the door. The door flung open, the darkness inside it wholly… Gunfire erupted from within it. Here, at the doorway, he collapsed. Darkness grew around him, as did the cold that soaked him to the marrow and through. As the frigid darkness embraced him and took him in, he felt life escape him entirely.

He shot up from the stool in the kitchen. Another nightmare. . . He moved the empty glass and bottle on the counter, next to the now empty bottle of anti-depressant and sleeping pills. He shuffled his way back to the bedroom where his wife and daughter once laid. The door slowly closed behind him. The sound of a “click” was heard…like that of a hammer on a handgun. All there was…was sobbing…and then silence.

Outside, a white van had arrived and honked its horn. The driver hopped out and went to knock on the door, only to find it ajar. He opened it up to find no one at first. He yelled out if anyone was home, but only found silence. He wandered to the bedroom, where he knew the man slept. He opened the door to find the man in bed…alone…dead, with a bullet hole in his head.

 

Robert J. S. T. McCartney
A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group