Life of Terror: Life of Terror Book One, page 14
Theo groaned from the floor. “What was that for?”
“I’m leaving,” Dexter announced, grabbing his bag again.
“No, you can’t. I won’t let you.”
Dexter threw the bag at Theo again, and another moan emanated from Theo’s lips.
“Want more of that?” Dexter said, his voice taking on a low tone, a baritone. Anger fuelled his muscles as he lumbered forwards, rage clenching his fists for him.
“Listen, you can’t—”
But Dexter socked Theo’s mouth with a punch. He arced another punch and swung it at Theo’s side. It connected with soft flesh, and Theo cried out.
“You were the one that let Lily go,” Dexter yelled with another smack to Theo’s face. “You let her go. It’s all your fault.”
“It’s not,” Theo cried as Dexter slapped him in the face. “You don’t understand. I can’t betray my brother like that, man.”
“And you can kick me and my sister to the curb?” Dexter kicked him in the side for good measure, a grin overtaking him at the pain Theo suffered from the impact.
Dexter jumped on Theo next, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up before slamming him into the floor. A crack shuddered the ground. The residents below them could probably hear the tussling, but Dexter didn’t care. Jack Spencer could return for revenge, and Dexter wouldn’t bat an eyelid. He slammed Theo again, satisfied at the way Theo’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.
“Dexter, please,” Theo said, voice weak.
Dexter shook his head. “You’re dead.”
Dexter hurried to where his bag was and rummaged through. He grabbed the knife he’d bought from the store earlier and brought it out. It wasn’t the longest, or the sharpest. But it could pierce skin, and Theo was the snake he wanted to torture a little longer.
Dexter gripped the hilt of the knife, immense power running through him. He stepped towards Theo, eyes flashing as Theo scrambled to his feet.
“You’re not really going to kill me, are you?” Theo said, glancing around. After finding nothing to defend himself, Theo ran back through the hallway. He ducked into his room, but Dexter was close behind, knife bared.
Dexter smashed through the door to Theo’s room and found him against the wall next to his desk. Theo shuffled papers around, trying to find a weapon to use.
“Screw you,” Dexter yelled, stalking Theo. Theo hadn’t found a weapon.
Dexter’s knife wouldn’t be enough, anyway. He wanted to do worse. Much worse. “Forget the knife,” he muttered, throwing it to the other end of the room. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
“No,” Theo cried, but Dexter didn’t let him speak anymore.
Dexter pounced on Theo and, despite the aches and pains spreading across his own body, inflicted more damage to Theo. Dexter’s fists barrelled into his stomach, his knees slammed into Theo’s midsection, and Dexter knocked his head against the wall until blood dripped.
Dexter’s hands found themselves wrapped around Theo’s throat, tightly squeezing with every ounce of energy Dexter could muster.
Theo gargled, his eyes wide and staring at the snarl on Dexter’s face.
“Pl…” But the words in Theo couldn’t rise further than his throat, since Dexter trapped them inside. Theo’s face grew red from the pressure, and Dexter, if possible, squeezed his hands even tighter. He felt invincible, powerful, as if he could do anything in the world, beat his dad, get Lily back.
My dad, Dexter thought. His dad had strangled him to the brink of death before. The memory flashed in Dexter’s mind, of how he struggled to force breaths as the life was squeezed out of him. Dexter was becoming like his dad, bitter at a loss, and abusive.
Dexter’s hands immediately loosened and he fell back, mind reeling. Theo coughed and spluttered as he felt the blessing of oxygen once more. Dexter lay on the floor, staring at his red hands, red with Theo’s blood. He had done that. He had inherited more from his dad than he thought. The violent tendencies were in his blood, too.
I’m not like him, Dexter told himself. But the truth was apparent for him to see. He was turning into the second version of his dad, and it was just another reason to hate himself.
Dexter let himself cool, let the humanity enter his bones once more. How was I about to kill Theo? How…I can’t lose anyone else.
“Were you actually going to kill me?” Theo asked a few minutes later, when his lungs grew accustomed to the air again. Theo’s face had regained colour, but the cuts on his head needed bandaging.
“Yeah, I was,” Dexter said. “You deserved it.” No, you didn’t, Dexter corrected himself.
“But you couldn’t do it?” Theo asked.
Dexter picked at the wooden floorboards with his nails. He’d need to cut his nails, soon. “I thought of my dad. That I didn’t want to be like him. That…well, the last part of me would disappear if I became like him.”
“You’re nothing like your dad,” Theo said, meeting Dexter’s gaze. “You’re ten times the man he could ever be. And you’re going to get Lily back.”
Dexter’s head snapped to Theo, who had stood up, and breathed heavily. “How?” Dexter asked.
Theo’s eyes lit up. “I know you don’t trust me much, but we’ll both get her back. I’ll get patched up, and then I’ll show you a little thing we could use.”
19
Graham
Graham reached the summit of the mansion a few minutes after pausing at the image of the target at a computer science conference. Graham crawled to the door of the attic. His chest tightened, nervous energy coiling within him like a spring. His fingers loosened over the flashlight and pocketed it. The rough fabric of his trousers scrubbed the clam off his hands.
He was here to kill the man. Not get stressed over it, not ask questions. Just head inside, kill the man, and leave.
Graham placed a hand on the doorknob. A chill seeped into Graham’s skin.
Get a grip on yourself. Stop being such a coward.
Graham turned the handle. The click reverberated. He pushed, and the door swung open.
“Who’s there?” a voice shouted. A voice that failed to obscure the panic of its owner.
Graham stepped inside and slammed the door shut. The rest of the group must have noticed the bang, and would probably rush to investigate. Cavalry was coming, but Graham would be long finished by the time they arrived.
“Who are you?” the target said, backing away from Graham to the other end of the room. A double bed sat in the middle, and the target scrambled to the other side of it, long black hair swishing down his back. He grabbed a knife from the bedside desk. “Who are you?” he repeated.
Graham marched towards him and retrieved the knife from his pocket. “It doesn’t matter who I am.” Graham rolled his shoulders back and set them down. He exhaled. “I’m here to take you out.”
The target edged to the far side, where a wardrobe stood. He backed up against it, raised the knife, and jutted his head out.
“You think you’re confident?” Graham asked, then laughed. The pulse of confidence racing through his veins was unlike anything else. A coldness flooded his arms, as if he could kill the man and walk away with no remorse. Felicity had mentioned the first kill being the worst, but Graham knew this one would be the best.
He stalked forwards with languid strides. He was here for a quick murder, but he wanted to enjoy himself. Especially when the target was like his old manager.
“You were at Comp-Sci Con?” Graham asked. It was a convention for computer science geeks, and he was one of them more than five years back. He had attended every year to hear speakers talk about the latest developments in the field. Graham had wanted to be the best programmer in the world.
But pricks like the man before him suppressed that dream in favour of unwavering stress and guilt. People like the target would fling anxiety at him like it was a game, and that caused the depression to spark in his brain.
“Yes, I was there,” the target said, shuffling against the wardrobe. “Is that what this is about? The world has descended into madness. Why care about computer science, when computers don’t even work?”
“Stop talking when I ain’t asking you,” Graham said. A shiver of power throbbed through him. Now he knew how Brett and Felicity felt, the sheer power that must’ve rushed through them when they gave orders, when they were the leaders of the group. When they had the upper hand.
Target stepped back, as if attempting to disappear into the wardrobe. As if it held the keys to another world like in Narnia.
“What do you want with me?” Target said. “You went to the convention, so what? What do you want with me?”
Graham chuckled. “I already told you before, I’m going to kill you.” The coiled energy loosened, before springing forth. Graham lunged forwards and slashed with the knife. He grazed Target’s shoulder as he dodged to the side. Target jabbed a stab at Graham, but Graham stepped out of range.
Graham trained an eye on Target’s limbs, watching for any micro-movements that might alert him to Target’s intentions. Target turned to the other side and sprinted to the bed. Graham tailed him and jumped. He collided with Target and they both clambered to the mattress.
“Get off,” Target screamed, but Graham pulled him to the floor. Dust kicked up and clogged up Graham’s mouth. Target rolled as Graham struggled to his knees, knife in hand. They both coughed and scrambled to their feet.
Graham wiped his forehead and clenched a fist around the knife’s cool hilt.
“You’re a tricky one,” Graham said. He swiped his nose and inched forwards again. “But you’re going down.”
“Why do you want to kill me?” the man cried, running backwards. His head smacked into a bookshelf on the wall, but he ignored the pain and turned to the wardrobe again. Graham stalked Target, knowing he was trapped in a corner, with no route of escape.
“Don’t ask too many questions,” Graham said. He understood now why Brett had that rule. Questions were annoying, were unnecessary, and didn’t help get the job done.
Graham dashed at Target and thrust with the knife. It stabbed the air, missing Target’s torso as he jumped back. But the jump caused Target’s head to smack against the wardrobe. Target swayed on his feet for a second, balance eluding his legs. He tried to stumble towards the attic door to escape, but Graham blocked the path with his knife. The knife lodged inside the wall, and Graham pushed Target back with a hand.
Target tripped over but shot back up, hands wild. His eyes roamed the room, searching for an escape.
“You won’t get out,” Graham said with a cackle that surprised even himself. “You’re one of the scum I remember. Those dickheads that made me stay back for unpaid overtime.”
Target shook his head. “I wasn’t that guy. I’m begging you. I have—”
“Shut the hell up,” Graham said. “It’s people like you, living in places like this, that make me sick. Getting your CEO wages without even a shred of hard work yourself. Making us do everything.”
Graham remembered staying up all night to code something for a deadline the next day. At home. And getting none of the credit. Instead, project managers and company owners were the ones that profited from his hard work, and he received nothing. Not even a thanks, no sign of a sliver of commendation.
“I’m not like that,” Target lied. He backed himself up against a wall. The knife dropped and clattered against the floorboards. He raised both his hands.
“I beg you, don’t kill me,” Target said.
“No,” Graham said. “You’ve done so much damage, and deserve to die.” Where was this voice coming from? The power in Graham—he’d never experienced anything like it before. Exhilaration rushed through him at the man’s terror, at the effect Graham was inciting.
A rank stench wafted through the dust towards Graham.
“Don’t tell me you’ve pissed yourself,” Graham said. Pathetic. He laughed and edged forward with the blade. Target pressed a hand against his nether region, but more piss leaked to the ground. Target’s face reddened through the darkness as his jaw tightened.
“You’re such a snake,” Graham said. A voice in the back of his mind strained to ring out, tried to speak to him. But the authority roaring through him smothered it, silenced any doubts in his mind. He had been trampled on by CEOs throughout his entire work life, and now he was getting payback.
And it tasted so sweet.
“Any last words?” Graham asked. Faint footsteps sounded beneath them. Probably the others coming up to see what the noises were about.
“Please, don’t kill me. I’ll jump out. Please, not the knife. I’ve always—”
“You always talk too much, that’s what.” Graham leapt with the knife and gutted Target in the neck. The knife passed straight through, a clean cut, and lodged inside Target’s throat. Target gargled, spitting blood. Graham revelled in seeing red, and twisted the knife. He caught another vein, and a spurt of blood shot into the air and rained down on him.
It smelled vile, smelled horrific. Felt amazing.
Graham retracted his hand. Target’s frame slumped to the floor. Graham kneeled down, witnessing the death in the man’s eyes, and stabbed him in the stomach once more. Igniting pain even after Target had died. Quenching the thirst for blood raging inside him.
“Graham,” a voice said. More footsteps rang out behind him. Graham stood and pulled out the stained knife clutched in his right hand.
Ralph leaned against the wall before him. “I guess you got the guy, then?”
Graham nodded with a grin. “Yeah, his ass is dead.”
Ralph walked over and inspected the body. “Did a bloody good job of it as well. How the heck did you manage that? Whizz with a knife?”
“I just…he had to be killed. And I did it. That’s all.” Fatigue set into Graham’s bones. The exhaustion he usually felt after a fight swept through him as he followed Ralph out of the attic. Dust clogged his nose as he shut the door. The power that once raced through him dissipated as he tailed Ralph down the stairs.
“Target dead,” Ralph shouted.
“All right,” someone replied. It sounded like Brett.
Graham paused at the next turn down the stairs. A portrait on the wall stood out to him despite the darkness. His eyes traced the frame of the image, before focussing on the picture itself. His blood froze.
It was Target. Standing in front of a massive dinosaur skeleton. Graham recognised it from the Natural History Museum, which he had taken Mary to on a date once before. The man’s arms were around another woman, and they held a daughter next to them. Happy smiles marring their faces in the light.
What have I done?
Graham’s eyes roamed the picture. Target had a family, had a daughter to look after, had a wife who was probably calling out for him to return to her.
And Graham had mercilessly murdered him, with violent stabs and gashes. With the will to kill flaming every fibre in his body.
Guilt flooded him in waves, and it twisted through his mind as his breath hitched. He took a step back, clutching his mouth.
I can’t believe I…
He turned towards the stairs. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it back into the churn rushing through his stomach.
“You coming down?” Ralph called.
Graham kept silence, and instead glanced back at the picture.
What have I become? Graham questioned, recalling the power he’d revelled in when he murdering Target. The way the control rushed into his arms as he twisted the knife in the man’s gut. The hatred spewing from every motion in Graham’s limbs.
What the hell had he become? He used to be a family man with Mary and his son, his beautiful baby son.
But Graham was a monster now. A cold-hearted monster.
“Graham,” Ralph called.
Graham snapped into motion and climbed down the stairs two at a time. His legs almost folded when he hopped to the bottom.
What have I become? Graham asked himself again. Worries clung to every step he took. Shuffling across the marble floors alerted him to the group leaving the mansion.
“Would be a good place to hide out,” Brett said.
“Maybe another time,” Felicity said. “We need to get back to the cabins.”
Graham stumbled to the front door. Felicity and Brett waited there. Brett clapped him on the back, and Graham’s stomach lurched.
“Ralph told me it was you,” Brett said with a smile. A sick, twisted smile. “Good job. We’re heading to the cabins now, where you’ll see the rest of what we do. And how we make money. Since you want to know so badly.”
Graham nodded with a gulp, and trod back to the truck. The truck that would take him to his new home, a cabin in the woods about twenty miles away.
Graham didn’t have a real home, though. He didn’t belong anywhere. The group had caused him to lose the only part of his soul he had left.
I have to leave.
Graham’s fists tightened as he climbed into the truck. Because if he didn’t leave, the last part of his humanity might be ripped away forever.
20
Dexter
The wind still persisted as Dexter and Theo crept through the cold streets of East London, walking the five miles they needed to get to the place that Theo described.
“It’s close to the city centre, but in a weird place,” Theo said, head wrapped up and dry blood staining the white of the bandage. Dexter had put it on for him, more thoughts of self-hatred flooding him as he truly realised the extent of the pain he’d caused.
Dexter still didn’t trust his friend as they crossed the road. Theo had sold Lily to his brother, basically. But, if Theo had a way that Dexter could use to get Lily back, he would jump at the chance with all his strength. Which wasn’t much, after the constant fighting of the last two days.
“Are you sure you remember where this is?” Dexter asked, cracking his bruised knuckles.
The journey they had taken so far hadn’t been an easy one. Weed sellers and other gang members patrolled the streets, looking for unsuspecting civilians to rob among the piles of dead bodies littering the roads. Dexter tried not to look, but there was a pull that gravitated his gaze towards them. As if carnage was impossible to avoid glancing at. Looters were looking for stores that hadn’t been shuttered off that they could rob. Looking for people like Dexter and Theo traversing the streets that they could add to the bodies on the ground.
