Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

INCARCERATION

––––––––––––––––

DEATH HAS COME

Book 1

Christopher Chapman

GOING POSTAL PUBLISHING

Going Postal Publishing

603 E Houghton Ave

Houghton, MI 49931

ISBN: 978-1-105-9396-5

Copyright © 2012 Christopher Chapman

Cover Copyright © 2012

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any mechanical or electrical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except when permitted by law.

Visit me on the web at www.goingpostalpublishing.com

For Samantha, for inspiring me to be a better writer, and a better person.

And

William, Alice, Elizabeth, and Raymond. You’ve always been my inspiration. Always.

CHAPTER ONE

Brian Normand had always known that he would eventually die. He’d never considered that he’d only be wearing his underwear when it happened. He’d always believed that his death would come while he was driving on the highway, or maybe from a heart attack years from now. He never thought the end would come the way it did.

He awoke from a dead sleep, feeling the familiar pains of hunger materializing in his belly. Brian was a large man—standing six-five—and weighing two hundred-fifty pounds. It wasn’t surprising that he needed a lot of food, even at night. He glanced towards the clock. Letting his eyes focus, he read 3:21 on the large, red LED display. He looked down at his wife, Carol, who was still sleeping soundly. He took a moment to weigh his options. He wanted food, but didn’t want to disturb her. Her arm rested on his chest, making his silent escape even more difficult.

As the rumbling in his stomach grew in intensity, he decided that he needed the food more than he feared Carol’s irritation if he accidentally woke her. He carefully lifted her arm, pinching her wrist between two massive fingers, and moving it until it was a safe distance from his body. He lowered her hand until it rested on her chest. She stirred momentarily, but turned over and became still.

Brian slid out from underneath the covers and stood quickly. The hardwood floor felt like ice against his feet. The chill brought him out of the drowsy state he’d been in just moments before. A new hunger pang struck him as he walked into the hallway.

There were two rooms up ahead, one on each side of the hallway. To the left was the bathroom, while the right belonged to their son, Jessie. Straight ahead were the stairs that led down to the first floor. Feeling another familiar sensation, he chose the room on the left. He relieved himself, feeling instant pleasure as he did, and causing his eyes to roll up into the back of his head.

He left the bathroom, took a left, and walked quietly towards the stairs. He moved down the stairs like a ninja, careful not to step on any spots that creaked.

Once he was at the bottom of the stairs, he moved into a routine he knew all to well. He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bowl, spoon, milk, cereal, and a comic book. The comic book was the essential part of this ritual. He read old issues from the comic collection he’d had as a kid while he ate. There was nothing like eating a bowl of Corn Flakes or Smacks while reading an issue of Superman or Batman from the seventies.

He turned on the dining room light and placed his items onto the table. He sat down, putting the cereal into the bowl, the milk onto the cereal, and spoon into the cereal. He opened an issue of Batman, holding it in his left hand while he ate with his right.

A Joker issue, he thought, seeing the familiar, smiley-faced, green-haired criminal.

His enjoyment was short-lived. He stopped eating when he thought that he could hear footsteps coming from the living room. Coming alert, he stood at attention and looked out into the dark room. He saw nothing but darkness. Thinking that it was just his imagination, he sat back down and started eating again. He was about to put his third spoonful into his mouth when he felt a cool breeze caress his bare skin. It felt cold and raw, not something he should have felt at this time of night.

Brian looked around, wondering where the breeze was coming from. He walked into the living room, his food becoming nothing more than a forgotten memory. He entered the darkness, not really sure what he’d find. He saw a recliner, love seat, coffee table, and one television. He looked to the walls, wondering if a window had been left open. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. All the windows were closed. He wasn’t sure what—.

His heartbeat quickened when his eyes moved to the front door. It suddenly became obvious why he’d felt the chill. The front door was open about six inches. At first he thought that Jessie had gone out for something, forgetting to latch the door on his way back in. He grabbed hold of the door and pulled it open. What he saw nearly stopped his heart completely. The outside of the door looked as if it had been butchered with a hatchet. Puzzle pieces fit together in his mind. He now understood why he thought he’d heard footsteps. Somebody had broken in.

His body stiffened with the certainty that somebody was in the house—somebody who didn’t belong. He walked quietly, avoiding making a sound. He stopped at a locked door. He felt along the upper frame for the hook containing the key. Finding it, he unlocked the door and entered his den, where he kept a pool table and an arsenal of guns. It was the guns he was after. He removed a key from the back of the gun cabinet and unlocked it. He reached inside and pulled a large case off the top shelf. He removed the object from within the case, unveiling his .44 Magnum. He held it in his hand, feeling as if he’d been reunited with some lost lover. The gun’s metal felt cool against his monstrous palm.

As he returned to the living room, he stopped suddenly. He heard movement upstairs. He listened quietly, trying to get a feel for where the intruder was. The element of surprise was in his favor, and he intended to take full advantage of it.

The silence was broken when he heard a scream that chilled his soul. At first he thought that he was just hearing things, that his imagination had created the scream. When he heard his son, he knew that something was wrong.

“Mom,” Jessie yelled, his voice muffled by the floor between them. Brian heard footsteps start from Jessie’s room and move towards the bedroom he shared with Carol.

His mind raced with the possibilities of what could be happening. He was certain that there was an intruder, but now he couldn’t help but think that the intruder had done something to his wife. He pictured her lying in the bed, a bruise developing on her right cheek. He saw her cowering in fear because her husband—all six-five of him—was nowhere to be seen. She was frightened because she had woken, looked for him, but he wasn’t there to protect her.

He shook his head, erasing the thoughts from his mind. How much time had he just wasted? One second? Maybe ten? It didn’t matter how long. He had a gun and was about to protect his family from whoever it was that was upstairs with them.

Brian cocked back the hammer and started for the stairs. He climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time, trying to get to the top as quickly as possible. He made it in four large strides.

At the top he slowed. He moved down the dark hallway, careful not to shoot anything that moved. His wife and son were up here somewhere. If he wasn’t careful, he was likely to shoot one of them. He didn’t know if he could live with himself if that ever happened.

A flicker of movement at the end of the hall—from his bedroom—caught his attention. It was difficult to see anything because of the one lone window in the hallway. There was no moon out, so all he saw was ambient light from the street. He aimed the gun, careful to make sure that he knew what he was aiming at before he pulled the trigger.

The movement continued and was coming his way. It was a dark figure, walking towards him slowly. The figure moved as if it were staggering clumsily, nearly falling on more than one occasion. When the figure made it close enough to be seen in the window’s dim light, Brian Normand became more frightened than ever.

It was Jessie that had been walking towards him. He staggered closer, a look of surprise on his face. Both hands covered his throat as if he were choking himself. He made horrible gurgling sounds as if he were choking on saliva.

Jessie’s eyes met his father’s. They stared at each other for a moment. Jessie eyes changed, appearing as if he was relieved to see him, then suddenly fell forward, removing his arms from his throat and wrapping them around his father.

“What’s wrong, Jess?” Brian asked in a whisper. He tried to pull his son away but found him to be dead weight. Panic took over, forcing him to growl angrily. “Jessie, what the hell is wrong?”

He felt something warm run down the front of his exposed skin. He thought that it may have been piss—Jessie’s piss—but realized that it was much too high. Whatever it was, it was coming from Jessie’s upper half. He pressed Jesse away from his body, keeping him at arms length. The front of Jessie’s pajamas was dark, much darker than the light blue pajamas he’d gone to bed in. Brian looked down and saw that his own chest was covered in a dark substance. Blood. Jessie’s blood. Jessie’s upper body was covered in it, and now so was he.

“Jessie, oh my God,” Brian said, restraining himself from speaking above a whisper. Despite his urge to shout out—and losing all control of his emotions—he managed to keep himself in check. He wanted to scream out for his son, but chose not to. The element of surprise was still on his side, but he didn’t know for how much longer.

His fingers moved to Jessie’s throat. That certainty grew in intensity when his fingers froze just inches from his neck. His eyes grew larger as his mind comprehended what he was looking at. His body convulsed when he realized that Jessie looked different. His mind strained as he processed what was there—or more accurately: what wasn’t there. His son’s throat was gone. As impossible as it seemed, Jessie’s throat was no longer there. Shreds of skin and a large hole were all that remained. Blood had poured from the hole, covering both he and Jessie, but no longer. Blood no longer flowed from this wound because Jessie’s heart had stopped beating.

Jessie was dead. How could that be? He was only sixteen years old. Sixteen-year-old kids don’t get murdered. How could the boy that Brian used to bounce on his knee and take to little-league games now be dead? It was all too much for his mind to process.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout. He wanted to empty the gun into the nearest wall. All of his anger and frustration bubbled to the surface, begging to be let out in one massive display of aggression. He would let his anger out all right. Whoever did this to his son was about to wish that they’d never been born. Whoever fucked with his family was about to die.

He ran into the bedroom, his gun extended out before him. His eyes scanned everything, looking for the man that murdered his son, and was doing God-knew-what to his wife.

Their bedroom was even darker than the hallway. He flipped the light-switch as he entered the room but nothing happened. The light must’ve burned out. His only light source was one window with the curtains drawn. It was next to impossible to see anything, let alone an intruder. Yet, he found that he could make out some shapes and saw that there was somebody standing over his bed, leaning over his wife. That wasn’t the most frightening thing, however. Worse than seeing the image of a man standing over his wife was the sound. It took a moment to process, but he thought that it sounded like somebody slurping a milkshake through a straw. The sound sent chills up his spine and left him more concerned for Carol than ever.

Brian didn’t wait to make his presence known. He couldn’t allow the intruder a chance to defend himself. He aimed the gun the best he could and pulled the trigger. The figure was forced backwards, staggered, and dropped to the floor.

Brian moved to the bed, hoping against hope that his wife was okay. He caressed her with his hands. He wasn’t at all too shocked when he felt that warm, sticky wetness that he’d first felt coming from Jessie.

“No,” he screamed, letting the word carry in his throat for a while.

There was no denying the fact that Carol was dead as well. This guy had killed her just as he’d killed Jessie. Anger unlike anything he’d ever felt before coursed through his veins. He became aware of the fact that one bullet wasn’t enough for this guy. No way. This bastard wasn’t going to get off that easy. He deserved so much more than that. He had several more bullets that were itching to find a new home, and he intended on giving them just that.

He moved to the other side of the bed. The man was still on the floor, squirming to get to his feet. Brian didn’t hesitate. He moved into position, aimed the gun, and pulled the trigger again and again until there was nothing left but the click of an empty gun. Bullets ripped through the intruder, taking chunks of flesh and bone with them. Brian looked at the man on the floor. He didn’t move. Brian had killed him. He felt no remorse.

He dropped the gun to the floor, listening as it struck the hardwood with a dull thud. He bowed his head, then turned back towards Carol’s body.

What was he supposed to do now? The logical answer was to call the police. Let them investigate what happened. His mind froze when he realized that he soon would be making funeral arrangements for his wife and child.

Something cold—possibly a hand—touched him on the shoulder. He shivered under the touch. Not knowing what to expect, he turned around slowly and was shocked to see the man that he’d shot several times—a man he knew to be dead—standing before him, his mouth hanging open.

Brian, a former amateur boxer, didn’t hesitate. He cocked back and slammed his right fist into the left side of the man’s face. He heard the sound of bones crunching beneath his impact. As the man fell to the ground, he realized that the man’s bones had broken far too easily. How could this man have killed his family, taken several bullets, and then shattered as if he were made of glass?

He didn’t have long to think about it. Brian watched in amazement as the man stood up, looking as if there were no bullet wounds or injury to his jaw. There were no visible wounds, even though pieces of him had been shot off just moments before. Clothes were tattered, torn, and had visible bullet holes, yet there was no blood or sign of injury. Brian studied the contour of the man’s face, even through the darkness, and was amazed to see that it appeared as if he hadn’t been hit at all. It was as if his face had healed in less than fifteen seconds.

“What in the hell are you?” Brian asked, wondering if the intruder was human.

The man cocked his head to the side, as if he was considering this question. Seconds passed before the man spoke. He said only one word, but it made Brian sick to his stomach.

“Death,” the man hissed in an unnatural voice.

Brian’s nerve broke. He was now convinced that this wasn’t a man at all. Brian no longer felt the desire to avenge the deaths of Carol and Jessie. Survival instincts taking over, all he could think about was getting as far away from this thing as possible.

He turned and ran. He moved down the hallway quickly, slowing down only when he jumped over his dead son.

A hand grabbed Brian by the shoulder, stopping him cold. Strength unlike anything Brian had ever experienced turned him around, forcing him to be face to face with the man who wasn’t really a man.

There was something different about the man’s face. He looked exactly the same except—. His eyes focused on what he saw. There was something different about his mouth.

Pain erupted from Brian’s throat. Had the intruder even moved? He wasn’t sure. Brian struggled for freedom. Brian felt helpless to do anything to stop this man. He found that his size and strength was useless against him. He felt as weak as a five year old girl. If he didn’t do something, he would surely die because of it.

The man released him. Brian staggered backwards, realizing that he was coming dangerously close to the stairs. He momentarily considered sending himself down the stairs, ending it all. He believed that the fall would allow him to join him family more quickly. When his hand moved to his throat, he realized the end would come soon enough.

Where his throat should have been was a large hole surrounded by jagged, torn skin. He felt warm, sticky blood as it gushed from the wound and flowed down the front of his body like a river, covering the blood Jessie had gotten on him earlier. He knew that nobody could lose as much blood as he was and still live to talk about it. As his fingers continued probing, he discovered that there was no way that he was ever going to talk about anything ever again. Everything in his throat was gone. He knew this when his hands touched a large, jagged bone. He didn’t need to be a doctor to know that this was his spine. Small grooves ran through the bone, a product of the weapon this man used.

His eyes regained their focus as he came to realize what the weapon was. Fresh blood ran down the front of the intruder’s face. He’d cut through flesh and bone using only his teeth. Was that even possible?

He would have thought about it some more, but something was happening to him. Yes, he was dying, but that wasn’t all that was happening to him. There was something—ever so faint—in the back of his mind, calling out to him. It was a voice, weak but growing in strength and intensity. It was saying something that he couldn’t quite make out. The man who killed his family was all but forgotten as the voice continued building in strength—growing in sound—as it seemed to overtake him little by little. Soon, the voice was loud and clear, echoing in his mind.

Brian Norman dropped to his knees, then fell face first to the floor. The beast that looked like a man knelt down next to him and whispered something into his ear. He couldn’t hear what he’d said, seeing as the voices in his head were loud enough to drown out a train. He had no way of knowing that the beast said only three words, the same three words that were repeating in his mind over and over again.

With that, Brian Norman died. The last thing he heard was the voice in his mind continuously repeating the words: death has come.