Power To The second

The still wet bodies of three small children, laid lined up on a black sheet.  They are young, innocent.  Two girls, ten months and two years old.  Both clad in flowered blue dresses with matching bows in their blond hair.  The third no more than three, lay between them, his face bruised, his hands covered with battle sores: He had tried to defend his sisters.  Even at such a tender age, he knew the evil that had come for them.  He was longer, taller than the girls, but with matching blond hair it was obvious that he was the big brother!

Splashing could be heard down the hall, not splashing like someone was washing dishes, or happily taking a bath.  No, splashing of uncertainty, of fear of death!  The dark blue paint that covered the hallway walls, seemed to match the feel of death in the house, the feel of Hell, the feel of fear.  It was as if someone had painted the walls to resemble a large ocean waiting to claim the lives of these children by drowning them!  A slight scream of a child escapes the bathroom at the end of the hallway.  The door opens, a woman if she could be called that exits into the hallway!  Hunched over, clad in a black robe and veil.  Her fingers knurled like someone who suffered from an extreme case of arthritis.  Agatha held the lifeless body of the child in her arms.  This girl was clad in jeans and a pink sweat shirt.  Water cascaded off her Nordic colored hair and the droplets broke open on the floor below.  A dark wood, not pine, but oak, it looked almost as if it had been stained with the wrong shade.  The girl was bigger than her siblings, maybe eight years old.  Her eyes were swollen shut, and blood trickled down from her sockets to the pink sweat shirt.  It made the pink darker, as it pooled into it, but did not over power the color.  Agatha laid the body of the girl down at the very end of the sheet.  She stood for a few seconds, then turned and entered a side bedroom, closing the door behind her.

It was already fall, a time of the year that Doctor Mark Sawyer didn't care for, the days got shorter which meant that darkness would engulf his community quicker.  Fall also brought Halloween a stupid holiday that he hated, and for good reason he loathed any holiday that dealt with the undead.  He pulled into the driveway of his house, already the little lights were on that illuminated the driveway.  He stopped the car and ran his hand through his blond hair.  His hair seemed to help bring out the deep blue richness of his eyes, blue like the ocean or the paint that covered his hallway walls.  He felt odd, off even.  His stomach had what his late mother would call a butterfly effect.  He opened the door of his black Mercedes SL and stepped out.  He closed the door and for some strange reason about which he wasn't sure!  He glanced upward.  He staggered back a step or two before he caught himself.  He could feel the sweat that had instantly broken out on his forehead, but worse than becoming sweaty; he had become cold, a cold with the feeling of death wrapping itself around his heart!

He saw the hand waving, the gnarled disfigured fingers.  He couldn't hear it, but he knew there was a laugh, there had to be one!  He wanted to move but couldn't.  He was plastered in place by fear, his brain said to get into the house to protect the children, but his body refused to listen!  RUN!  He needed to get to the children, get them out of there and get out of the state while he had a chance!

Cribbs, his bodyguard came to mind, he always left Cribbs with the children.  The man was a walking mountain and trained in Kyusho Jitsu.  However, still knowing that Cribs was in the house, didn't free him from his frozen position right away.  He knew positively that even the size and cunning of the man may have still been no match for the gnarled old woman waving to him from the window.

He felt himself buck forward.  He was running, running towards the front entrance of the house now!  He could hear his heart beating

THA-THUMP THA-THUMP over and over.  It screamed into his ears like someone banging on the tightly pulled skins of a Bongo drum!  He could hear his breath as he inhaled and exhaled.  The driveway lights flashed past the corner of his eyes, blurred almost like some FX effect in a film!  His eyes saw white, the white stone of the house, he knew the stone was sprinkled with blue and red, but he couldn't see that.  White was the only color that registered in his brain at that moment, and that wasn't the color he was looking for.  Sawyer needed to see Cherry, the dark Cherry wood of the front door of his house.  COME ON! He screamed!  He saw it and then leaped over the tiny Pine tree that had just been planted, Sawyer crashed into the front door with a loud thud!  He had hoped it would have been open when he pushed on the latch but in the back of his mind, he knew that Cribbs would never make that mistake!  He fumbled for his key in his gray Dockers, pulling them free from the cloth at the bottom of his pocket!

They jingled in his hand, even over the THA-THUMP THA-THUMP of his heart that still played Bongos in his ears.  He could hear them clearly, like chimes blowing together in the wind.  His hands were wet; nervous sweat had set in.  He almost dropped the keys, cursing himself, but was finally able to drive them into the keyhole!

He was in, he left the door open before him, Sawyer stood still in the foyer.  He could smell it, the tin smell, the smell of death, the smell of blood!  Lots of blood!  His mouth was dry, his tongue felt like it was glued into place, prying it free the Doctor shouted.  Cribbs, are you here? His voice echoed off the walls, there was no reply.  Cribbs! He shouted again.  This time he could hear it, hear it plain as if that hate filled bitch stood right beside him, LAUGHTER. As slight as it was, muffled as if coming from a neighbor's house through an open window; he heard her and he knew.

He crossed into the living room, Art Deco furniture dotted the room in crazy wild pastel colors.  For some reason he wondered why, why he had that hideous furniture, who in their right mind would put such things in their home?  He shook his mind free, he took a step deeper into the living room and felt his feet sweep out from beneath him, as if a table cloth had been yanked on by a badly trained magician, he was tumbling now downward like cups and plates falling from an open cabinet about to be shattered!

He hit the floor with a loud bump, he had kept his chin tucked as he went down protecting the back of his head, something he had remembered from his high school wrestling days.  He lay still for a moment, hoping he hadn't sprained or broken anything.  He turned his head and came face to face with the lifeless form of his bodyguard.  Cribbs?  He whispered the question, almost in shock to find the man lying next to him lifeless on the floor.  Gotta get to the kids, now!  His mind was exploding, he rolled over and pushed himself up onto his feet, but as quickly as he went up, he slid back down!

He looked at his hands, they began to tremble.  Here he was on his back again, his bodyguard dead beside him and his hands stained red from the man's blood!  Mark could hear it, but wasn't sure what the noise was, or where something so horrible to the ears could be coming from?  It took him a minute or two, maybe longer before he realized what he heard was the sound of his own screams!  They were screams of terror, the anger of a man close to the brink of madness!  Then Sawyer heard what he knew was there, heard it clear and loud, the cackle, the gaiety, the laughter of the woman he hated so much, no, the laughter of the thing he hated so much!

He rolled to his side and with the aid of the coffee table, pulled himself to his feet and looked quickly around then headed for the steps!  The steps ascending to the second floor where stained the same color as the floor on the second floor.  Mark reached the landing and stopped.  There it laid before him, like some sick artist's nightmare!

His children laid across a black sheet.  Sawyer could tell the sheet was wet, he knew what she had done to them, and the appalling way they had died.  He dropped to one knee, his world was spinning and his stomach felt like he was being spun around by some sick out of control amusement park ride.  No, please, God not them!  Sawyer felt the first wave of nausea hit him, as his lunch came thundering up from his stomach and splashed to the floor below him as it spewed out of his mouth!  The Doctor's nostrils burned from the smell of stomach acid!  He felt faint and wondered if he was having a heart attack or stroke, surely this would be symptoms for one or the other, if not both!

The door to Mark's right opened, Agatha stood there for a moment.  She watched as wave after wave of vomit flooded the floor.  She laughed and moved around him and descended the stairs.  Mark heard the front door slam shut, as he tumbled forward and passed out in his own lake of regurgitation!

CHAPTER II

Detective Myles Blaine stood off to the side, he watched as the lights of the squad cars and ambulances spun red and blue mosaic art across the front of the white stone house.  He looked closer seeing the waves of red and blue lines through the stone work, like some off world worms were making their way through the stone, etching out a home for themselves.  He was clad in a pair of black jeans, nothing fancy, and nothing expensive, the kind you would find in a discount shop.  Myles wore a red Polo shirt and over it, a black suit jacket that had seen a few street scuffles.  His choice of footwear was black sneakers.  He rolled a nickel back and forth over his knuckles as he thought.  The nickel seemed to know exactly where it needed to go without the cop thinking about it.

Blaine glanced to the right and watched as two overweight middle-aged men in lab coats and black dress pants placed the last of the small bodies into the Coroner's wagon and slam the back closed.  Blaine leaned back against his car, a new black and red Mustang Shelby, a car he loved, the look, the design, the power, and the purr of the engine.  He watched them all moving like zombies from some grade B motion picture.  Blaine sighed, death effected people in different ways, but the hardest hitting of them was always the senseless death of children.

The detective watched the paramedics working on the man seated at the end of the ambulance.  Blaine pushed himself off the car and crossed to them, he looked down at the man, who was ashen from all the vomiting.  You waved to this woman, but you claim not to have seen her face, I find that a little hard to believe Mister Sawyer.  Blaine watched the face of the father, the Doctor the man who had lost his family, he waited while Sawyer looked at the two attendants as if asking for help.  Look, I told you there was sun glare or something all I saw was her hand waving to me, that's when I realized something was wrong.  Blaine rubbed his face, he hated these types, the ones that thought they were smarter, tougher more educated than he was, he stared into the man's eyes, eyes that said one thing to the Detective, LIAR!  Impossible Was all he said.  What?  Sawyer asked, weak and a bit confused, who the hell was this cop and why the hell was he attacking him, why wasn't he out looking for the woman who had just killed his children?  Unbelievable, Sawyer heard about these nut jobs from social media, but didn't think he'd run into one, what the hell did he want him to do, find the killer for him, why was he paying taxes?

What? Sawyer asked weakly.  It would be impossible to have sun glare on that window as five thirty, it's only seven now and its pitch dark, how could there have been sun glare?  I said sun glare.... Mark swayed back and forth, his world spinning once more, bullets of sweat dripped from his forehead, crashing onto the gurney, Mark bent forward and to the side and opened his mouth as if to puke, only dry heaves expel from his body.  Blaine stood watching him patiently, the nickel still rolling back and forth over his knuckles like a well-trained show dog knowing what path to take.

One of the E.M.S, workers looked at him, the man was short and terribly thin, almost too thin it seemed to Blaine for this type of job.  Blaine wondered how he could get that thin, he stared into the man's eyes and finally the answer came to him, cocaine and heroin, the man was an addict, one who found it too easy to get what he needed so he didn't have to face life.  Maybe we should just take him to the Hospital now, that's the third time he's tried to puked since he's been with us, you can see he's dizzy.  If he does happen to vomit, it'll be ugly as hell.  The Thin man said.  Fine, take him, I'll talk to him at the hospital.  Blaine waived over a tall uniformed officer.  Jack Siezmore was a man in his early thirties, he was clean cut, all American right down to his neatly shaved face and short cropped blond hair.  Yes? The taller man asked Blaine.  I want you to ride with these guys to the hospital. Yes, Sir. And Jake, don't take your eyes off him!  The Patrol man nodded and entered the ambulance.  He watched as they rolled Sawyer deep inside, the bigger driver got behind the wheel, the man of drugs sat in the back, he looked out the window at Blaine as the ambulance drove off.  Blaine could see the fear in the man's eyes and he knew that the E.M. S. worker realized that Blaine knew his secret.

Blaine made his way to the interior of Sawyer's house, he watched as the Forensics unit ran a vacuum over the rugs and snapped off pictures on their expensive digital cameras.  He smiled, he loved the early 50's he let his mind drift, funny looking cameras that shot black and white film, no matter how it was developed it always looked old.  He loved the music of the time, and the cars.  He could feel the time, hear the music in his head, the milk and honey voice of Lloyd Price singing.  It was a time when America was coming into its own, a force to be reckoned with.  He could smell the hamburgers of the time, actual beef, the hot dog and the start of the bun.  Most people didn't realize that when the hot dog first came out, it had no bun, it was sold first on college campuses and was called a beef sausage, a vendor would hand it to you with a white glove.  Of course with the bun came the toppings!  James Dean, Jimmy Stewart, the Blob on the silver screen.  Somehow, all that had been good with that era had been lost in the era of today.  No young girls riding wreaking balls in their bras and panties or totally nude, singing foolish songs.

Blaine snapped out of his visit to the fifties, when Guy Gorman a goofy looking man in a wrinkled blue suite and brown Fedora, flopped against the wall next to him.  Guy, a man in his forties, with a crooked face and a throwback look to a time when irons were hard to find, smiled.  A camera hung around his neck, if Blaine could think of the one thing he liked about the man, it was the toss back camera around his neck reporter look.  This looks like it was a pretty ugly scene, got anything I could use?  Gorman asked.  Doesn't the rag you write for, print enough crap?  How about writing an article once in a while worth reading, Gorman?  Blaine responded.  You don't think, four kids being drowned in their own home, is worth writing about?  You think the father did it?  Blaine ran the nickel back and forth over his hands, then flipped it in the air, caught it, then showed his empty hands to the reporter.  Very impressive Detective, but leave the tricks to the real magicians, give me something I can use here.  Sorry, Guy, I gotta go. Blaine walked off slowly watching the team work.  Thanks for nothing.  He hears Guy call after him, bringing a smile back to his lips.

CHAPTER III

Siezmore watched the Attendant hold a bedpan under Sawyer's chin, as the Doctor attempted to vomit again.  Finished, Sawyer sprawled on to his back, wiping at the beads of sweat that dotted his forehead once more.  He knew the vomiting wasn't from a sickness, at least not a physical sickness anyway.  He had arrived too late, he had let her claim the lives of his children.  He had counted on Cribbs being able to handle any situation that arose, but Mark should have known the bodyguard would never be able to handle Agatha.  No one could handle her, he had tried, did his best but failed and the outcome of his stupidity was now the death of his children.  He wished he had died in their place, or at least with them.  Sawyer sighed it was hopeless and he knew it, hopeless to think he could ever be free of her.

He looked down at his fists, he had them both clinched since he had been put into this screaming ride of red flashing lights.  He felt something off in his right one, he knew he had nothing in his hands when he entered the ambulance, at least Mark was pretty damn sure of it.  He opened his hands, a nickel fell from his right one, and it bounced on the rubber matting below him.  It spun for a second, then fell on its back.  Sawyer looked into the eyes of the thin E. M.S. worker, who seemed just as puzzled.  Maybe he handed it to you, and you didn't realize it. He ... didn't hand me a damn thing.  Mark glanced out the rear window, then closed his eyes, he felt his stomach flutter again, a look of worry dropped over his face like a curtain lowering in a movie theater of another time.

CHAPTER IV

Blaine sat in the dark hospital room, nickel rolling to and fro across his knuckles almost like it was running on an invisible track.  He watched the unmoving Doctor Mark Sawyer and wondered how a man with such blackness on his soul could remain so still so silent?  Blaine glanced around the hospital room, it was a pale green color, a monitor was the only thing hooked to Sawyer.  The blinds on the window across the room were pulled closed, even if they were open, light wouldn't come in.  Darkness fell across the town, stars shown in the sky and the moon was full, a lovers moon.  Blaine glanced at the blinking green and orange lights on the monitor and wondered how long the game of possum would go on.  The Detective was a patient man, he would sit here all night, but even patient people had other things to do.

I know you're awake, Doctor. Myles said in a hushed voice.  Please, you'd make this a whole lot easier if you spoke to me now.  A half smile of amusement tugged the right side of Blaine's upper lip, almost as if a Marionette's wire was connected to it and he wanted Blaine to smile for the children that had gathered for the show.  But, there were no children, no puppeteer's wire, no audience of any kind.  The children were gone, washed over in a horrid death of hatred and selfishness!  Blaine was in no way going to just let this continue on, he wanted answers he compulsory needed to know why the Doctor's children were murdered in such a manner!

I find it hard to believe that your Butler, Cribbs was so easily overcome by a woman.  Did you know that Cribbs before coming to America, was a Russian Special Forcers Officer?  He watched the silent figure on the bed, he stirred but only slightly, hard to see in the dark, harder to see if you weren't trained to do so.  The man was a highly trained grappler and an expert in Kyusho jitsu, the art of killing people by striking their pressure points.

Sawyer laid still, he could see the Detective sitting in the chair, well, he could make out his form anyway.  He wondered what the man was up to and why he had bulldogged onto him.  Wasn't there junkies to bust and pimps to slap around somewhere?  Mark tried his best to control his breathing and not move.  The cop was babbling on about Cribbs, how the hell did he know so much about him so quickly?  Ahhhh the damn computer age, damn those stupid circuit boards of trouble!  He watched from the corner of his eye as Blaine approached the bed.  What the hell was this nickel flipping nut job up too?  Sawyer felt his pulse surge, maybe the guy was going to try and smother him with a pillow, or use a syringe on him making sure there was an air bubble in it to stop his heart.  Or worst, maybe this psychotic cop was going to pee on him.  How fucking disgusting, what kind of people did they let on the damn police force now a days anyway?

Even if he had been attacked from behind, how could a man like that be stopped?  Blaine continued as he glared down at the man lying under the white hospital blanket.  Even by a man of equal size?  After all Cribbs was six foot five and weighed over two hundred and sixty pounds!  How the hell could a woman beat him to death?  The nickel stopped by his middle knuckle, Blaine plucked it off the right hand with his left, like a bird would pluck a worm from the ground.  He placed the nickel on the bed stand, an empty food tin laid on it, half-cocked on the plate laid a cream colored lid.  A few scraps