Bitter-Sweet Revenge

BITTER-SWEET REVENGE

By

Michael A. Burt.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Michael A. Burt at Smashwords

Bitter-Sweet Revenge

Copyright © 2012 Michael A. Burt

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Adult Reading Material

*****

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Aftermath

PART ONE - ERIC MASTERS

Baseball Bats, Comics and Guns

Protector

Keeper Of The Peace

Old Town

Point Of No Return

Suspicion On The Rise

A New Conspirator

Clubbed To Death

No Leads, No Witnesses, No Hope

Welcome To The Dominion

The Walking Genocide

Squish Goes The Scorpio

Now What

The Choice I Never Had

Darkside Of The Moon

Transition

PART TWO - NIGHTWALKER

Apologies To The Dead

Explanations Are A Bitch

Not What I Had In Mind

Higher Learning

The Next Step

Bad For Business

Street Justice

End Game

One Last Sunrise

BITTER-SWEET REVENGE

AFTERMATH

Four hundred feet above the city, how did I come to this? Staring off into the late dusk sky he ponders. Her soul in heaven, mine damned to hell. All I had was vengeance. Now they’re all dead. He stands on top of the Tower, once a luxurious place. After the storm of destruction he rained down on them there’s nothing, but gory ruins behind. How could I have done this?

Once upon a time, how stories of old often go, Eric was happy. He had a life worth living, a life most would be proud of. That was a long time ago, or so it seems. At one point in time he wore a badge, a shield that allowed him to protect the public interest and innocent. Not anymore. He was a good cop, but somewhere along his path that all changed. Most people in something like his situation don’t know when it changed, but then again there is nothing quite like this. It wasn’t his transition to a monstrous creature that caused it, the event happened roughly four days prior to that. All for the best, I’m sure. No way Emily would’ve wanted to see him like this. Then again, if she were still around he never would’ve agreed to what he did.

The image of the person he last killed enters his mind, fresh like a still bleeding wound. Gregory Sanders. You son of a bitch, you deserved much worse. The terror he felt in his last moments was slightly worth it, but it’s never going to be enough. It never could be.

PART ONE

ERIC MASTERS

BASEBALL BATS, COMIC BOOKS & GUNS

Eric Masters was like any kid his age. He loved cartoons and comic books, played baseball and other sports. Favored above all else were the comics featuring a vigilante. Not anyone of them particular, just the idea alone seemed appealing. Growing up in a bad part of a medium size city he witnessed countless forms of injustice. Those things never sat well with him because of his comics of choice. Not even in his own home was he safe from such things, thanks to his father. Having a hand raised to him didn’t bother Eric much, became a regular thing even. It was like the day wasn’t complete without it. When he was twelve dad raised his hand to mom. That he would not stand for.

It was dark in the house on that memorable Friday when he came home from school. Somewhere in the small house he could hear his mother sobbing. He could distinctly pick out the sound of pain. Scrambling around, hitting his knee on this or that Eric went in search for the source, the beacon unknowingly calling for help. Once he found himself in the same room she was in he used the silver lighter to see her, the lighter he stole from his father when he started smoking last year. With the first spark of flint he could see her, but it wasn’t until the flame grew that he saw what had been done to her. There was no doubt his father was the culprit. Who else could it be? Many a time he would look in the mirror to see similar marks on his face, complete with a black eye and busted lip among the inflictions.

Without as much as a word he went to the bathroom of the master bedroom. His old man, an out of work construction worker who dealt drugs on the side, lay next to the toilet. Passed out with the stench of vomit wafting in the air as proof that the old man had been praying to the porcelain gods. Thanks to the encouragement from his comic book vigilantes he’s on the move, no thought needed, just action.

Back in the bedroom he reaches under his father’s pillow for the automatic he knows all too well is there. Many a time has Armando put that very gun in his face, telling Eric how much of an accident his birth had been. Well dad, it’s your turn. Despite the harshness of the situation he smiles, the old man’s gonna get a taste of his own medicine once and for all.

The pistol tucked into the back of his pants he walks back to the bathroom, stops for something at the closet first. Once in the doorway he flips on the light switch, his father stirs in his drunken slumber. Eric stands there for a few moments just watching his father sleep, waiting for something. Just when the old man is going to pick up his head Eric decides that is what he was waiting for. With the baseball bat he took from the closet he swings, starting low. A guttural cry emanates from Armando as Eric hits his ankles, then moves higher with each following hit, three more until he gets to the knees. With every swing and every cry Eric is fueled with an unknown feeling to keep going. Armando is too shocked to fight back, the pain on a slight delay thanks to the Tequila swimming in his brain mingling with heroin.

It isn’t until Eric hits his father in the genitals does he move on his son. He doesn’t get far because the bat collides with his head in a brutal hand shake that causes an explosion of color to cloud his vision. The beating continues. No bones break, but his body promises a thousand aches from numerous bruises. The bat falls to the floor in a reverberating clatter on plastic tile, signaling the end of the beating. Armando’s vision finally clears. Now his crying comes to a halt, but his entire body throbs. Before he can make sense of what possessed his son to do this the gun he carries when selling drugs is looking him in the face. Of all thoughts to come to mind why, how’d he know where to get that, wasn’t what he would’ve expected.

Television is the parent, teacher and friend to every child privileged to have one. It will never leave or reject them, never ignore or neglect. That’s where Eric learned all he knows about this object. It still comes to Armando as a shock when Eric chambers a round and thumbs off the safety. He pulls back the hammer and his finger tightens on the trigger, but no bullet explodes from the barrel. The silence stretches on, the sound of Armando’s blood rushing in his veins sounds too loud to him. Finally Eric breaks the silence. A bullet’s too good for you, he says to the man who has the audacity to call himself Eric’s father.

That day has a ripple effect on three lives, like when a pebble gets chunked into a pond. Not once after that day does Eric come home to a dark house. Armando stopped a lot of things that day. All the abuse, drinking, anything involving drugs. Armando pulled a complete one-eighty. He went back to work and became a loving, if not fearing father and husband. The gun is never far from Eric, even takes it to school with him, though no one ever finds out. Who knows when it’ll come in handy?

PROTECTOR

Most teenagers with a gun find that they have it because they’re in a gang. When they use it, it has to do with gang warfare. Eric’s not normal, especially with his extracurricular activities. Senior year he finds himself pointing the automatic at someone, but not his father. On his way to the mall after school he hears an argument before he saw who was having it. He assumed the two are a couple, but the thing that makes him first take interest is that it’s two girls. So even Eric has typical guy tendencies, so sue him. Later on he finds out the two girls were dating the same guy. When he can finally see them he witnesses the older of the two slap the younger with a practiced ease. Something inside Eric snaps, he’s frozen to the spot.

When the older of them began to walk away screaming at the other, a senior he knew from his freshman year, Richard, came out of the house. He exchanged angry words with the one still standing there and he hits her too. Up to that point Eric went unseen, but that’s when his eighteen year old hands grab the gun from his backpack and pointed it at Richard.

The girl that had walked away saw this happen and ran in front of Richard. She began shouting that she loves him, not to hurt him and blah, blah, blah. The other, he would come to know as Emily, walks away from them, to stand next to Eric. Stay here, he says to her as he walks over to the abusive love birds. The glare in Eric’s stare is the same glare that made his father change his ways six years before. Again the vigilante from inside comes out, but he’s not as forgiving as he was with the old man. He gets both Richard and his squeeze to face the wall and puts their hands on it. Searching Richard with his free hand he finds a .45 automatic and an bag of white powder. Knowing the asshole’s reputation it’s most likely heroin. On the girl he finds a .38 revolver and handcuffs. Why handcuffs, he can only speculate to be something kinky. He pockets the guns, and drugs, then slaps the cuffs on them.

Laying them on the walkway he makes each of them sniff half of Richard’s stash. Having already inhaled a good amount of drugs prior to this they both begin the painful stages of overdosing. Eric removes the handcuffs and leaves them there to die. Good riddance, the only thing on his mind. As he moves away he doesn’t see the girl anymore.

On his way to the mall he notices someone following him. It’s the girl from before, the one that got hit. How he could’ve missed her while he left Eric doesn’t know, she disappeared. Walking into an old lot he sits on a bank of concrete and waits. When she catches up she sees him sitting there with a cigarette in his mouth. It’s unexpected, she just stops and stairs, suddenly unsure of what she’s doing. Eric beckons her to join him.

Thanks, Emily says after introducing herself, you didn’t have to do that.

Kill them?

Oh no, to hell with them, she says dismissively, as if she’s talking about taking out the trash. Not far off.

No problem. Besides, got to expand my arsenal. He says, patting the .38 in his pocket.

Emily looks into his champagne eyes. He sees that hers are a beautiful hue of green, dark and innocent. Why did you help me?

"I don’t like seeing women getting hurt. My father beat my mother once when I was twelve." His tone suggests it never happened again.

And you took care of him?

In a more forgiving manner. It’s where I got my gun.

So, she’s got this feeling like she owes him. It’s in her experience that no one does something for nothing, what gang you roll with?

Much to her bewildered surprise, I don’t. He’s surprised at the question.

But I’ve seen you hang with the Scorpios at school.

I have friends in gangs, but I’m not in one and have no desire to be. Not that they won’t stop trying. His friend Jay recently became a Scorpio, and hasn’t stopped bugging him to join too.

I’m sure.

Eric looks her over. She’s very beautiful, but along with her eyes, her face has the look of innocence tainted by the mark on her face. They both hit her in the same place. Then something occurs to him, How old are you Emily?

Fifteen.

Fifteen? He can’t believe it, You’re too beautiful to be fifteen.

Don’t you mean hot? The way she says it suggests she’s used to being treated like a piece of meat, not a person. What hurts Eric to hear is that she seems to be fine with it.

No, I meant what I said. In a situation such as this Eric would put a stop to the proceedings before he could get feelings for her. Most people he knows don’t pay much attention to age, but he does. Eric fears he can fall for her given enough time, and it’s wrong because she’s so young, but he doesn’t stop. Where most feel the need to dominate someone like her, he feels the need to protect her so no one does dominate. So why were you mixed up with a guy like Rich? He’s twenty.

Yeah, but I liked him for some reason. I’m told my taste in men is horrible.

Going with guys like that I’m inclined to agree.

I’m trying to change that. Not being subtle she asks, Were you headed to the mall?

Yeah, acting oblivious, I got work in thirty.

Oh, not bothering to hide her disappointment, well I should get home then.

Eric feels, wishes even, that there was something he could do for her. Hey, if anyone tries that shit with you again, he pulls the .38 revolver out of his pocket, use this.

Thanks, she puts it in her purse. See you at school tomorrow?

Sure. Before he gets up she kisses him on the lips and is off. Wow, completely caught off guard.

All day while he’s at work he thinks about that kiss. Whenever he finds himself doing something that doesn’t require him to think his mind drifts back to her lips pressed against his. That one thought is a magnet sitting close to the metal of his brain. He keeps telling himself that it’s wrong, she’s too young, but he can’t stop thinking about her. Even after he closes up shop and walks home he doesn’t realize what he’s doing because she’s on his mind. His body is on autopilot while he revisit’s the moment over and over, unable to stop. He’s had girlfriends before, but they were too fake, always worried about their looks and popularity. Emily doesn’t come off like that at all.

Sadly, in his neighborhood it’s not completely uncommon to see yellow police tape blocking something off with chalk outlines where bodies were at one point in time. With that and being on autopilot he doesn’t notice this particular crime scene until he almost passes it. A first glance doesn’t trigger anything until he looks away. Something very familiar about it. Then it hits him. This is my doing.

In all of his mental activity it never occurred to him what happened after he left. Chalk outlines of where the bodies were lying tells him what he figured, but didn’t consciously think. Richard and his squeeze did die of a drug overdose forced on them by him. He feels no remorse, no regret. He rid the world of two people that come a dime a dozen in a place like this. Why should I feel guilty? After all, this isn’t the first time. The vigilante in him doesn’t jump for joy or squirm with happiness. He just sits beneath the surface in satisfaction, almost wishing to