Page 81 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“We gotta go.” He walks to the corners of the lobby, unscrewing the caps on the closed gas cans I placed around the room.

“You think?” I mutter sarcastically, looking at how low the visibility is.

We move towards the exit, knowing we have about five minutes before every available police officer and firefighter is busting inside of this shithole. My hand grabs the doorknob, twisting it in my fingers.

“Don’t!” Rook shouts from behind me, tossing a cap at the back of my head. “It’s like you’re trying to fucking kill me. When we open that, the air is going to light this place like a motherfucker. Let me finish this, then we can open it together.”

My molars grind together, jaw tightening. If he blows me up, I swear to fuck… When he’s done, he jogs to the door, taking a deep breath and giving me the go-ahead to open the door.

“Meet you at the Styx?”

I nod. “At the Styx.”

I shove the door open, and I feel him take off in a dead sprint.

“Go, go, go…” he mutters, sprinting off the front steps of the building and heading towards the plush front lawn, where a small fountain sits.

Sensing his urgency, I follow suit, running after him. When my feet hit the grass, the rattling of the explosion behind me forces me to the ground. The waves of heat pouring from behind me make me cringe.

I’d seen a lot of his fires before, but they’d never been like this.

The sound of glass shattering and wood splintering echoes. I rotate, my ears ringing loudly, seeing the town hall wrapped in a hue of orange and red. Vengeful flames lick the sides of the building, consuming the roof.

It’s one giant middle finger to the people of this rotting town.

“You think that’s a big enough distraction?” Rook smirks as he watches on the ground next to me, lying flat and inhaling the fresh air.

As if they heard his voice, the sound of police sirens whines in the distance, and the urgency to get the fuck out of here returns. Getting ready to stand up, prepared to get to the car and get away as quick as possible, I hear a voice.

The reason we’d started this. Why we stayed in Ponderosa Springs. It’s the voice that never asked us to go through with this, but we refused to let him do it alone.

His revenge had become ours. His pain was something we shared.

The fourth and final member of Ponderosa Springs’ bastard founding sons.

“I leave and you let Rook take the lead?” His voice is smoke, quiet, lingering. “You’ve lost your edge, Caldwell.”

Welcome home, Silas.

THE CREATOR

TWENTY-THREE

Thatcher

Chains rattle just outside the thick metal door.

My fingers run along the built-in shelf just above a small bunker-style bed, all the books listed in alphabetical order. The bed beneath holds a mattress that is dated, worn, stained a horrid color of yellow, but perfectly made. Newspaper clippings are pasted along the dingy white walls, and there is a metal toilet carrying God knows what diseases in the corner.

It smells of mold and musty clothes. Clean, but it still carries a certain stench. A familiar one.

If I reached my arms out, I’d only need a few more inches to touch both walls of this room. This is the hole my father had been left to perish in. No contact with the outside world, no sunlight.

Just a six-by-nine concrete block.

The groan of the door being pulled open brings my attention to those entering inside.I am in control, I tell myself again. There is nothing he will do or say that will break my poised appearance.

I am in control.