Inferno by Anthony Milhorn

Author:Anthony Milhorn [Milhorn, Anthony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-02-02T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 4

"On a cobweb afternoon

In a room full of emptiness

By a freeway I confess

I was lost in the pages

Of a book full of death

Reading how we'll die alone

And if we're good, we'll lay to rest

Anywhere we want to go..."

--- Audioslave, "Like a Stone."

I thought I was finally beginning to understand.

The thought kept running through Brian's mind on repeat.

It had taken him two weeks to finally get comfortable with his new situation; his new self, his father's hidden past, and now, well hell now his solidarity with what he really was had been thrown out the window. There was something wrong with him after all, something that was dangerous, unpredictable and out of control. It was beginning to sink in that he had killed people. After the fight in the warehouse, the notion hadn't bothered him much because he was riding high on adrenaline, on fear and relief that Max was alive.

Now?

Now he had time to sit and really think about it mostly because he was confronted with the fact that it had very nearly happened again to an innocent person, to one of Max’s friends.

How many of those men in the warehouse had died?

How many have died at my hands? He thought looking down at his open palms with their rough finger-pads and black fur, the blunt short claws on the ends of his fingers. In his mind, he had a terrible image of his hands wet with sticky crimson blood and the image was so strong that he found himself wiping his hands on his jeans legs before he could stop himself.

How many? His brain asked again as it chewed the notion like a dog with a rawhide bone.

He knew at least three. Maybe more. His memories flashed through his head, stabbing at him again with their images tainted red, jumbled and confused, out of order, seen from someone else’s perspective.

A body flying through the air with a cry of pain, slamming into a piece of heavy machinery, the sound of breaking bone.

A man lying in a broken pile of wood and metal with a neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

A man on his knees…a violent kick…the thump of flesh heavily hitting flesh…

Blood spraying in the air like warm rain from a hellish sprinkler.

The truth was staring him in the face at last.

He was a killer.

I am a killer.

He looked over at Max. How did he handle it? Did it bother him?

Of course, Brian had known that Max had taken lives over the course of his career as a vigilante, and he knew that Max had probably killed those men that had attacked Brian himself. That felt different, disconnected and not so personal. It was more personal, he realized when it was your hands that had done the killing and worse, he didn't even know he was doing it. It was like he had been asleep the entire time, floating in his mind while his body did its own thing.

Brian swallowed down the bile he felt rising in his throat as he thought about what nearly happened at the club with Blaine.

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