NANOWRIMO STORY FINALE, part iv
Nov. 18th, 2007 10:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
laylafic**~~NANOWRIMO STORY FINALE, part iv~~**
Entry word count: 5681
For Story Notes, click here.
Now on to Entry 22:
83.
Melanie didn’t know if the fates were working against her or for her.
The phones weren’t working, the cars were out of gas, the lights were still out—and it was seven forty-three pm now and she hadn’t been able to call for help or get in touch with Lindsay. She figured she should be grateful that the Richardsons liked to ride bicycles as a hobby because they had two pairs standing in the garage which had ended up being their only mode of transportation.
Frank—that was the neighbor’s name—had insisted he accompany her as they rode to the nearest public place to find help. Ideally, she wouldn’t have agreed on leaving the kids at a stranger’s home but Angela, his wife, had reassured her that they’d be safe inside. Besides, Brian knew them and had trusted them enough to have the kids go over to visit them a few times, so she figured she could trust them too.
"How much further?" she asked, her breath coming fast as she peddled the bike, trying not to fall too far behind Frank. He obviously biked regularly and it showed in his stamina.
"Just a few more minutes," he replied. "Let’s hope they have the phones working."
They were the postal workers at the local post office where the two of them were now headed. It was still dark all around, the bicycle lights their only guide through the darkness, and she wondered if anyone else had tried to get in touch with the emergency services because of the power outage. Surely, they weren’t the only ones affected. She tried her cell phone again and it was still out. Damn. She looked at the watch. Seven forty-nine. Shit.
"There it is," Frank’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked up. A small single-storey building loomed before them and she saw candles flickering in the windows. A sign at the turning said "Murrysville Postal Service". It didn’t look like they had power, though. What if the phones were down here too? The mobile signals were still not working—had they traveled all this far in vain?
They climbed off the bikes as they approached the building and walked to the door.
Just when suddenly the lights turned on in the building.
"Oh my God," Melanie cried as she looked around, noticing the whole neighborhood was back on power. She looked back at the road they’d come from and revised her opinion. No. Not the whole neighborhood. Not yet. But most of it. And it probably meant the power was gradually being restored to all the places.
They hurried inside the post office. It took them a few minutes to describe the situation to the three postal workers at the office and at the end of it, Melanie thought she was going to scream in frustration. The phones were out here too and the mobile signals were not the only thing not working—the radio signals were jammed too. So the phones were out, and the radio was out. How far were they supposed to fucking go in order to have the phones work?
"Maybe we can email for help?" One of the workers sitting in front of a PC looked at them hopefully.
Melanie and Frank looked at him blankly as if he’d spoken in Klingon. And then, "You have internet?" they both spoke up in unison.
"Sure," the postal worker said.
"We thought your phone lines were down," Melanie said.
"Lady," the man sounded affronted, "This is the United States Postal Service. We have a secure DSL connection through an underground Fibre Optics cable." He clicked something on the keyboard and looked at the monitor. "And now that our lights are back on, it appears to be working just fine!"
84.
For a moment, Brian felt disoriented.
Had he taken a wrong turn somewhere? Was he walking in the wrong direction? From what he knew, the total length of the tunnel between cannon base and the House was over one thousand five hundred feet. He’d walked that distance once in the company of his construction agent and once with the UCC official. Tonight was the first time he was traveling it alone, by himself, the dim light from the kerosene lamp he’d found in the small cabinet at the entrance his only guide in the dark.
About seventy-five yards into the entrance of the tunnel, it broke off into four main off-shoots and if he chose the right fork at that point, then about hundred yards further, that fork broke into two separate ones—one of which led to the House.
And that was the cause of his dilemma.
He’d taken the first offshoot that he’d thought to be the one to lead to the second offshoot that would lead him to the House. The fact that they’d all looked the same to him even in the company of guides did nothing to lessen his apprehension that he might be lost. Parts of the tunnel had even caved since the last time he’d been in here and he had to be careful as he felt his way through the narrow passage, his head lowered to compensate for the lack of space above. Either that or he’d actually taken a bad turn at the first offshoot and this was the wrong tunnel.
But his instincts told him to keep going, told him he had no time to turn back now and look for a new offshoot or recalculate his steps. So he did what his sixth sense told him to do, and kept on walking through the twists and turns and curves the tunnel took—hopefully leading him towards his destination. Many a time, he felt small, furry bodies—small rodents and nothing more, he hoped—scurrying over his feet, squeaking in the darkness, but by the time he would lower the lamp to catch what they were, they would disappear into a hole or a burrow. It got warmer as he went deeper into the belly of the tunnel and he felt sweat breaking on his skin as he walked on and on for long minutes.
And then he was standing in front of the second offshoot—one fork going to the right, the other to the left. If he remembered correctly, he’d gone through the left fork the last two times he’d explored the tunnel. But if he’d taken the wrong fork the first time then he’d be further lost into this maze and he couldn’t afford to be lost right now. He had to get to Justin fast.
So he took a deep breath, and stepped inside the left offshoot. If this was the right tunnel, he’d soon come across the steel-reinforced gate he’d installed about a hundred yards before the tunnel reached the House’s cellar. It had a computer-coded locking system—operable from either side—with its own portable power source, and only he knew the password.
Unfortunately, he’d only walked for a few more minutes when the wick in the kerosene lamp sizzled, and the flame died.
Fuck.
It was pitch fucking dark inside. He couldn’t even see his own hand in front of him. From his assessment, he still had about hundred and fifty yards to go before he reached the gate. And the only thing he had at his disposal was...
He took out the lighter from his pocket and flicked it on. He hoped it had enough fluid inside it to see him through till the gate.
He increased his pace now, despite the fact that now in the meager light of the lighter he could hardly see his own hand in front of his face. He was running out of time. Justin was locked in there with the psycho, all alone. He had to get to him right now.
He fucking hoped this was the right fucking tunnel.
He could feel his leg muscles strain as he felt the tunnel floor rise over an incline. He was reaching higher ground, he could feel it. But where was the damned gate? He should’ve reached it by now. It seemed he’d been walking forever, but the gate should’ve been there. Christ. He started running through the darkness, stumbling against the walls, coming across more collapsed portions of the tunnel. Please God. Let this be the right tunnel. He ran and ran, his heart pounding in his chest, his throat closing with fear. This had to be the right tunnel. He hadn’t made a disastrous blunder by choosing to come here. Please. The cellar door had been a trap, he knew that. He had to have made the right choice. He had to be in the right tunnel. He had to be.
As it turned out, he didn’t actually see the steel gate until he nearly ran into it head on. He slammed to a stop right before he did though, shocked at its sudden appearance, afraid he might be hallucinating it was actually there.
But he wasn’t hallucinating. The gate was there. He’d made the right fucking turn.
He pressed on the computer panel and the section slid to the right, revealing an entry pad. He entered the password, heard the beep, pressed his thumb to the biometric pad, heard the second beep, and felt his breathing ease when with a click, the lock opened. He gripped and turned the handle and gave the gate a push, and then he was inside.
Just hundred more yards now. It was still dark but he knew he was closer so he walked with a purpose, his feet sure, his eyes alert in the weak light of the lighter. He knew the moment he’d reached the point where the tunnel ran next to the cellar. He’d gotten a thick concrete wall erected right at the point the tunnel’s boundary touched the cellar, and it was disguised on the other side so as to look like just another ordinary wall, so that no one would ever find out there was anything behind it.
But that was not the actual exit point into the House.
That honor went to the old closet in the Game Room—the one he kept his sports equipment and riding gear in.
Brian didn’t know why he’d never gotten that door permanently closed. It was a trap door—the kind you only saw in spy movies, leading secret passages into secret tunnels dug deep into the earth. He didn’t know why, even with the kids staying in the House—and Gus came every summer and winter to spend a few weeks at the House—he’d never gotten, what essentially was a dangerous exit into a hundred year old tunnel, closed.
Whatever the reason—now, as he climbed up the small opening into the concrete foundation of the House and then slid up the narrow section that brought him just under the closet floor, he was damned glad he hadn’t gotten it closed.
It took him a few definitive pushes to slide off the thick wooden planking and then he was inside.
The first thing he noticed was that his racquets and his riding gear were missing. In fact, the entire closet was stripped bare.
The second thing he noticed was that... the house was filled with sounds.
He opened the closet door and stepped out into the Game Room, closing it behind him. It was pitch dark in the room and for a second, he wondered if he should perhaps look for something to use as a weapon, but then the sounds coming from outside the room distracted him. He slowly walked to the room’s door, grabbed the doorknob and turned it, pushing the door an inch to peer into the lobby beyond.
Lights. There were lights inside. No. Not lights. Not exactly. Was it the television? But no, that wasn’t it. What the fuck was going on?
He closed the Game Room door behind him and walked to the door that led to the dining room. The sound was coming from somewhere inside. He paused at the doorway and strained his eyes in the darkness. No. Not the dining room. Beyond. In the Great Room.
He didn’t realized he’d walked until he found himself in front of the closed double French doors in front of the 12-seat dining table and, looking through the glass, unmoving. It wasn’t the television but it was a film all right. It was a film projecting right on the wall above the fireplace. It was...
It was Justin. In the tunnels.
With the madman. Kicking and screaming and struggling. Crying.
Justin. Crying.
Brian! Brian!
He watched the horror show play out before him, watched Justin pushed down on the blood-streaked floors as the psycho shredded his shirt with a sharp-edged knife, watched the axe rise high in the air and then come down just as Justin’s face contorted with a scream as it landed inches away from his head.
Brian felt his throat close. This was what Justin had been saving him from. This was what he’d gone through. In the tunnels.
In the....
He heard a creak from somewhere behind him and felt a chill run down his spine when he heard the voice.
"I’m surprised that this surprises you, little boy!"
Brian froze. It was the clown.
"You should’ve known you’ll be abandoned in the end, just like always." The voice was coming from the lobby, near the stairs, he realized as he watched the image of Justin fight with the madman eleven days ago. "They always abandon you, don’t they?" Scoffing laughter. The clown was talking to Justin. In the present. Justin whom he was yanking and shoving and dragging through the tunnels in the images running on the wall. "Your father, your family..." Brian found himself turning, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the images, as he moved to the door and silently and paused at the threshold. "...and your cursed, cowardly, faggoty lover!" The spitting contempt in the words made him press his lips tightly. "Well, it’s time for the end of your pain."
No.
Brian looked back one last time at the images playing on the wall and saw Justin claw at the masked face, his shirt in tatters—still fighting, still struggling, even in the midst of his terror. He heard the front stairs creak and turned away from the images, having seen enough. He took one step to stand at the doorway and turned his head a fraction and knew.
The clown was going upstairs.
For Justin.
85.
The second storey landing from where one looked down into the Great Room was formed into a perfect square. It was almost like a perimeter walkway over the room, the ornate wooden balustrades running along the four great walls, looking down into the heart of the room below.
The master suite was the first room one saw upon climbing the stairs, right at the center of the front landing, with the door to the covered terrace tucked to one side of it and the recreation room on the other. Right across from the suite, on the other side of the landing, was the small library flanked on two sides by the two guest rooms, and an open lounge area right in front of the balcony/terrace door rounded up the entire first floor plan.
For some reason, all the rooms, other than the master suite, had connecting doors joining one to the other, but Justin had found all the doors locked when he’d checked earlier. The door to the terrace where he’d come in from was also locked now—effectively blocking all his exists and escape routes other than the stairs below.
The stairs from where he could now hear the psycho climbing up.
Not that Justin was planning to run anymore.
He’d had enough.
He’d heard and seen more than he’d bargained for. The thing was... no matter how much he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to hide from the images because wherever he’d gone, the cursed recording had already been playing. He didn’t know how many projectors the psycho had installed across the House, he couldn’t seem to spot even a single one of them in the darkened corners, but the same fucking images, the same repetitive footage kept on looping over and over and over again.
And then there were the words. The despicable, pathetic message. The bullshit lies he knew he was not going to listen to anymore. It was all a mind game for the psycho and while Justin knew he was no match to an armed adversary – he knew that from experience – he was not going to fucking take it anymore.
Seeing the images, watching the blood, the struggle, the pain, had only reminded him of the agony he’d gone through hearing Brian screaming for him in the tunnels. The agony Brian had gone through thinking he’d been killed—hacked to death. And the horror they’d all faced afterwards. When the security guard had found him locked in the room at the end of the tunnel and he’d come out and seen Brian... laid out on the stretcher—white as a sheet. Seen the paramedics giving him electric shocks, trying to revive him, to save him.
The night Brian had almost died.
Because that’s how Brian was. He made himself responsible for Justin’s safety despite the odds. He appeared cruel and cold and unemotional when he had a logical point to score, and even though Justin almost always reacted strongly to those perceived shortcomings, Brian’s eventual actions had always betrayed his true intentions. He’d always tried to save Justin, always done his utmost to take care of him at every turn their lives had taken. Unfortunately, what that meant was that the times he hadn’t succeeded, he’d fallen apart. Every time Brian had imagined himself a failure at protecting him, he’d crumbled.
And if it hadn’t been the circumstances, it had been Justin who’d let him down. Who’d made him bleed. Who’d disappointed him.
Well, not anymore.
Justin heard the psycho reach the top of the stairs and felt his heartbeat speed up and his pores get hot as his fists curled and his teeth gritted. It was that instinctual urge to fight that had always pushed him. Because fleeing was not an option. He’d checked that out himself. The doors were locked, the windows were boarded up. He was effectively cornered.
So his only choice was to fight.
He might still be killed, still be fucking hacked to death, but he was not going to go down quietly.
For a moment, he imagined Brian was somewhere close to him. That he was inside the House and had come to save him. And this thought, that Brian was somewhere close by, near him, filled Justin with a strange sort of relief. Even if it was imaginary. Even if it was only in his head.
Because the truth was he didn’t know where Brian was. He didn’t know what had become of the stables. He didn’t know if Gus and Mel had been saved. He didn’t even know how long he’d been locked in here because his cell phone wasn’t even turning on anymore and he’d never learnt to wear a wrist watch and all the fucking wall clocks in the House had disappeared.
He could almost laugh at the irony of it. He’d been made a prisoner in his own house. He didn’t know where to go, what to do, where to hide, how to get out of here.
But the time for running was over.
The psycho was now on the landing across from him, standing in front of the closed door of the master suite, looking at him from the other side of the railing.
"You know, I don’t really blame you," he said as he started to walk around the landing, prompting Justin to move to his right, from in front of the library to the guest room to the open lounge, as the madman moved towards him from the other side. "It’s not your fault you were corrupted at such a young age." Besides the axe, he now held something else in his hand which Justin couldn’t make out in the darkness. "You’ve just been brought up and dragged up in the company of filth and decadence." He scoffed as he reached the area between the two guest room doors, right across from the open lounge area. "Too bad the one person you trusted the most has let you down so tragically."
And then suddenly he turned around, opened the door of the first guest room and stepped inside – shutting the door behind him.
Justin stared at the closed door for a moment, his heart thudding in his chest, his nerves thrumming. What was he doing? Where was he going?
And then the dots joined in his head.
One room connected to the next to the next to the next---
Without waiting another moment, Justin ran towards the stairs, his breath puffing, his mind screaming -- there’s no place to run, no place to fucking run, to hide, to escape – but before he could reach them, the door to the recreation room opened and the psycho stepped out right in front of him, the axe raised in his hand. "Where the hell do you think you’re running, leetle boee!" He sneered as he swung the axe right as Justin ducked his head, missing it by inches.
Justin cursed and swiveled on his feet – there’s no place to run, the voice screamed in his head, no place to fucking run – as he ran towards the lounge and reached for the small wooden coffee table, grabbed its legs and picked it up. The smell reached his nostrils just as he turned around to face the psycho.
Gasoline.
"I’d wanted your cursed, corrupting lover to be here when I came to the finale of my grand plan," the psycho said as he raised what looked like a burning flare in his hand, "but I guess it’s just you and me now." And with that he threw the stick down on the stairs and Justin watched, aghast, as the staircase went up in flames with a small blast. "Where are you going to run now, leetle boee?" the psycho mocked just as he charged at Justin, axe raised high.
And Justin took two strides and met him halfway, swinging the table with both hands, his face twisted in a snarl. Metal and wood met with a loud crack as the sharp blade sunk into the oak wood top and Justin used that leverage to shove as hard as he could. "FUCK YOU, YOU BASTARD!" he yelled as he felt the psycho’s step falter and pushed him back against the railing, the flames lapping at their skin—the whole fucking landing was now on fire. And then a knee connected sharply with his hip and with a gasp, he staggered back.
"I’LL CUT YOU, YOU FUCKER!" the psycho screamed as he rushed him again, the axe whipping an arc through the air as Justin shoved the table in his face to stop the blow. The axe connected with two of the legs this time, one after the other, chopping both in half, and suddenly Justin found himself holding two stumps in his hands. The axe swung again and he ducked again and then lunged at his attacker sideways. His shoulder connected with the psycho’s midriff and he heard a painful cry as fingers clawed at his arms to push him back.
And then suddenly he was on his back. "I’LL CUT YOU IN PIECES, YOU LITTLE FUCKER!" the psycho spat in his face as Justin scrabbled at his arms, his legs kicking.
"FUCK YOU!" he screamed, even as he felt his strength waning in the face of the psycho’s weight, as he grappled with the madman, clawing at his neck and chest, barely rolling away as he saw the axe come down and sink into the wooden floor next to him. "FUCK YOU!" he screamed as he raised his knee and kicked back as hard as he could, as he heard the sound of glass shattering –it’s the heat, it’s the fucking fire, the voice in his head cried– and felt the flames licking around them. "FUCK YOU!" he screamed as he saw the psycho hoist himself up on his knees and lift the axe to bring it down once more.
When suddenly he was pulled off his body.
"JUSTIN!"
For a moment he was lost. He knew the voice. He could recognize that voice with his last fucking breath. But his brain couldn’t compute the possibility. It couldn’t be. It had only been in his head. It had only been his imagination. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t...
He raised himself on his arms and saw Brian locked in a chokehold with the psycho, his right arm clamped around his neck as they thrashed together, his face twisted into a mask of terror mixed with rage. The glass pane of the terrace door was shattered behind him, the patio stool used to break open it lying upturned to one side.
"BRIAN!" Justin yelled as he scrambled to his feet, his eyes searching for the axe. It was lying two feet behind them and suddenly galvanized, he dashed towards it, his breath stuttering, his hands reaching out for the weapon. But before he could make it, he felt the psycho’s leg whip out and connect with his shin and down he went with a wheeze.
"JUSTIN!" he heard Brian’s scream as he heard them struggling again, and turned to see the psycho on his hands and knees, clambering towards the fallen weapon. "GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!" Brian yelled as he threw himself on top of the man to prevent him from grabbing the axe. No fucking way! For a moment, he saw Brian’s fingers touch the wooden throat and then heard Brian’s painful gasp as the psycho’s elbow connected with his ribs and the axe was once more in his hand.
"BRIAN!" Justin yelled as he saw them rise to their feet, with Brian’s fingers desperately hanging on to the psycho’s tattered clothes and the axe clutched tightly in the psycho’s grip. He saw Brian evade one punch, then another, but that gave the psycho the leverage to fully turn around and charge at Brian with a loud snarl.
"YOU SCUMBAG!" he roared as he pushed Brian against the wall, the axe swinging in the air, only to sink into the wall—the plaster shattering—as Brian dodged the blow. The next blow was blocked as Brian slammed his fist at the psycho’s chin and Justin watched –his mouth open in a perpetual scream– as they grappled, shoving and kicking at each other.
He didn’t know when he’d moved but he found himself on the psycho’s back, clawing at his arms. "LET GO OF HIM!" he yelled, just as the psycho’s elbow jabbed into his chest and he heard Brian scream his name as pain exploded in his senses. His hold weakened as he saw the axe come whooshing towards him and pulled to one side to evade it. He watched Brian grab the psycho’s swinging hand and suddenly Justin found himself pushed to one side as Brian shoved the psycho back and threw him against the burning railing. The psycho’s claws clutched at Brian’s clothes and pulled him against him as they slammed against the balustrade with all their weight...
...and the railing broke and Justin watched, horrified, as the two men crashed down from the landing and into the room below.
"BRIAN!" Justin screamed as he rushed to the edge of the broken railing and saw them down there, in the middle of the flames and blustering smoke filling the Great Room, still locked together in a throttlehold, still fighting.
In the midst of the chaos, with the smoke filling the landing and the flames on and around the staircase high enough to touch the ceiling, Justin heard the distinctive sound of approaching sirens. The police. Wasting no more time, he turned around and ran through the broken terrace door, his feet slipping over the glass as he grabbed at the railing and scrambled down the winding stairs. There was smoke everywhere and he could feel the heat lashing at him as he reached the landing and ran through the corridor into the kitchen, the walls engulfed in flames, and from there into the lobby.
He heard voices from outside calling for them and pounded on the front door. "HELP!" he screamed. "WE’RE IN HERE! HELP!"
Someone tried to open the door from outside so he ran into the Great Room and found Brian on the floor, helpless under the psycho’s weight, as the psycho clutched at his neck viciously. The axe was nowhere to be seen in the billowing smoke.
"BRIAN!" Justin screamed as he heard someone pounding on the front door. He turned around, his breath heaving, his heart skipping –what to use? what to use?– when his eyes fell on the object lying half hidden under the patio table next to the front door.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
It was a brown envelope.
With a Pittsburgh postage stamp on it.
86.
Brian couldn’t breathe.
His hands still clutched at the madman’s arms, still shoved and scrabbled at his chest and face and neck, but the smoke and the heat and the fire and the sheer fucking exhaustion of the last never-ending hours combined with the fact that his air passage was currently being blocked by choking barbarous claws made him realize that his time was running out. He felt the madman’s knees digging into his chest, increasing the pressure and kicked weakly at the stranglehold, only one word thrashing inside his head as he felt his grip loosen with the lack of oxygen.
Justin.
He felt the vice like grip around his neck tighten and felt his eyes roll back in his head as the pressure doubled and he heard his heartbeat slowing and his vision blurring...
...when suddenly there was this great deafening bang that stunned his senses.
For a second or two, he didn’t know what had happened. The sound seemed to reverberate in his ears and inside his head like a recoil from a Colt Python and it took him another moment to realize that’s exactly what it was: a gunshot.
"Brian?" he heard Justin’s frightened voice calling for him, just as he realized the psycho’s grip on his neck had slackened. He blinked through the smoke to look up into the sightless eyes peering at him from behind the Skull mask and the realization hit him just as Justin started screaming. "BRIAN?" his voice was shaking as he sobbed. "BRIAN?"
He was alive. They were alive. He’d shot him. Justin had...
Brian removed the dead man’s claws off his neck as he attempted to roll the body off him. "Justin!" he gasped.
"Oh God!" He felt Justin’s hands clutch at his sleeves and his hands as he was pulled out from under the dead weight. "Oh God!" As he wound his own arms around his lover, his senses still thrumming with shock.
"Are you... okay?" he asked, coughing, as he clung to Justin desperately. "Jus--?" He touched his shaking hands to Justin’s face as he tried to breathe through the choking smoke. "Are you...?"
But all Justin did was repeat his name over and over again as their arms tightened around each other and they gripped each other desperately, holding on, clutching frantically, still not sure that this was not a dream, a hallucination, a mirage.
And that’s how they were found when the police broke down the doors and came inside. As too many men –cops, firemen, God knew who else– swarmed inside the burning house and they were led out through the front door and out into the cold, breezy night.
The first person Brian saw was Melanie being held back by some cops and – God, she’d made it! She’d fucking made it! – saw her spring free from their clutches when she laid her eyes on them, and run towards them. "Brian! Justin!" she cried as she reached them, her breath heaving. "Oh my God!" She looked at them in shock. "You’re... You’re..." And then, dumbfounded, Brian watched as she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
And then they were swarmed by paramedics and policemen and Brian saw Jennifer and Lindsay and Michael in the throng. But all he could care for was Justin’s presence next to him. Alive.
They’d made it. They’d made it!
"Oxygen!" he heard Justin say. "Can anyone get us some oxygen?"
Bewildered, he looked at Justin as he waved to a paramedic. "Justin? What?"
"He’s inhaled smoke," Justin was talking to the paramedic, "he’s had too much exposure, can you please give him some oxygen?"
"Justin!" he gripped Justin’s arm to get his attention, "Justin!"
"He had a stress cardiomyopathy attack ten days back," Justin was babbling, "his heart stopped and he was in the hospital for ten days." He tried to push Brian on a stretcher the paramedic was laying out, "Please, he’s had too much.... exertion, could you... could you give him some oxygen?"
"Justin!" Brian gripped his chin and turned his face towards him. "I’m fine," he said, looking into frightened eyes. "I’m fine!"
And Justin’s face contorted as tears finally spilled form his eyes. "Shut up, Brian," he sobbed as he looped his arms around his neck and pulled him close and pressed his lips to his cheeks. "Shut up! Just shut up!"
His heart squeezing, Brian wrapped his arms around Justin once more, his eyes blurring with tears. "Justin," he said chokingly, as he rubbed his face into his lover’s hair, breathing in his scent, and held on tightly—for life.
And behind them, the House that he’d bought for his prince five years ago continued to blaze into the night.
******
Continued next.
Entry word count: 5681
For Story Notes, click here.
Now on to Entry 22:
83.
Melanie didn’t know if the fates were working against her or for her.
The phones weren’t working, the cars were out of gas, the lights were still out—and it was seven forty-three pm now and she hadn’t been able to call for help or get in touch with Lindsay. She figured she should be grateful that the Richardsons liked to ride bicycles as a hobby because they had two pairs standing in the garage which had ended up being their only mode of transportation.
Frank—that was the neighbor’s name—had insisted he accompany her as they rode to the nearest public place to find help. Ideally, she wouldn’t have agreed on leaving the kids at a stranger’s home but Angela, his wife, had reassured her that they’d be safe inside. Besides, Brian knew them and had trusted them enough to have the kids go over to visit them a few times, so she figured she could trust them too.
"How much further?" she asked, her breath coming fast as she peddled the bike, trying not to fall too far behind Frank. He obviously biked regularly and it showed in his stamina.
"Just a few more minutes," he replied. "Let’s hope they have the phones working."
They were the postal workers at the local post office where the two of them were now headed. It was still dark all around, the bicycle lights their only guide through the darkness, and she wondered if anyone else had tried to get in touch with the emergency services because of the power outage. Surely, they weren’t the only ones affected. She tried her cell phone again and it was still out. Damn. She looked at the watch. Seven forty-nine. Shit.
"There it is," Frank’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked up. A small single-storey building loomed before them and she saw candles flickering in the windows. A sign at the turning said "Murrysville Postal Service". It didn’t look like they had power, though. What if the phones were down here too? The mobile signals were still not working—had they traveled all this far in vain?
They climbed off the bikes as they approached the building and walked to the door.
Just when suddenly the lights turned on in the building.
"Oh my God," Melanie cried as she looked around, noticing the whole neighborhood was back on power. She looked back at the road they’d come from and revised her opinion. No. Not the whole neighborhood. Not yet. But most of it. And it probably meant the power was gradually being restored to all the places.
They hurried inside the post office. It took them a few minutes to describe the situation to the three postal workers at the office and at the end of it, Melanie thought she was going to scream in frustration. The phones were out here too and the mobile signals were not the only thing not working—the radio signals were jammed too. So the phones were out, and the radio was out. How far were they supposed to fucking go in order to have the phones work?
"Maybe we can email for help?" One of the workers sitting in front of a PC looked at them hopefully.
Melanie and Frank looked at him blankly as if he’d spoken in Klingon. And then, "You have internet?" they both spoke up in unison.
"Sure," the postal worker said.
"We thought your phone lines were down," Melanie said.
"Lady," the man sounded affronted, "This is the United States Postal Service. We have a secure DSL connection through an underground Fibre Optics cable." He clicked something on the keyboard and looked at the monitor. "And now that our lights are back on, it appears to be working just fine!"
84.
For a moment, Brian felt disoriented.
Had he taken a wrong turn somewhere? Was he walking in the wrong direction? From what he knew, the total length of the tunnel between cannon base and the House was over one thousand five hundred feet. He’d walked that distance once in the company of his construction agent and once with the UCC official. Tonight was the first time he was traveling it alone, by himself, the dim light from the kerosene lamp he’d found in the small cabinet at the entrance his only guide in the dark.
About seventy-five yards into the entrance of the tunnel, it broke off into four main off-shoots and if he chose the right fork at that point, then about hundred yards further, that fork broke into two separate ones—one of which led to the House.
And that was the cause of his dilemma.
He’d taken the first offshoot that he’d thought to be the one to lead to the second offshoot that would lead him to the House. The fact that they’d all looked the same to him even in the company of guides did nothing to lessen his apprehension that he might be lost. Parts of the tunnel had even caved since the last time he’d been in here and he had to be careful as he felt his way through the narrow passage, his head lowered to compensate for the lack of space above. Either that or he’d actually taken a bad turn at the first offshoot and this was the wrong tunnel.
But his instincts told him to keep going, told him he had no time to turn back now and look for a new offshoot or recalculate his steps. So he did what his sixth sense told him to do, and kept on walking through the twists and turns and curves the tunnel took—hopefully leading him towards his destination. Many a time, he felt small, furry bodies—small rodents and nothing more, he hoped—scurrying over his feet, squeaking in the darkness, but by the time he would lower the lamp to catch what they were, they would disappear into a hole or a burrow. It got warmer as he went deeper into the belly of the tunnel and he felt sweat breaking on his skin as he walked on and on for long minutes.
And then he was standing in front of the second offshoot—one fork going to the right, the other to the left. If he remembered correctly, he’d gone through the left fork the last two times he’d explored the tunnel. But if he’d taken the wrong fork the first time then he’d be further lost into this maze and he couldn’t afford to be lost right now. He had to get to Justin fast.
So he took a deep breath, and stepped inside the left offshoot. If this was the right tunnel, he’d soon come across the steel-reinforced gate he’d installed about a hundred yards before the tunnel reached the House’s cellar. It had a computer-coded locking system—operable from either side—with its own portable power source, and only he knew the password.
Unfortunately, he’d only walked for a few more minutes when the wick in the kerosene lamp sizzled, and the flame died.
Fuck.
It was pitch fucking dark inside. He couldn’t even see his own hand in front of him. From his assessment, he still had about hundred and fifty yards to go before he reached the gate. And the only thing he had at his disposal was...
He took out the lighter from his pocket and flicked it on. He hoped it had enough fluid inside it to see him through till the gate.
He increased his pace now, despite the fact that now in the meager light of the lighter he could hardly see his own hand in front of his face. He was running out of time. Justin was locked in there with the psycho, all alone. He had to get to him right now.
He fucking hoped this was the right fucking tunnel.
He could feel his leg muscles strain as he felt the tunnel floor rise over an incline. He was reaching higher ground, he could feel it. But where was the damned gate? He should’ve reached it by now. It seemed he’d been walking forever, but the gate should’ve been there. Christ. He started running through the darkness, stumbling against the walls, coming across more collapsed portions of the tunnel. Please God. Let this be the right tunnel. He ran and ran, his heart pounding in his chest, his throat closing with fear. This had to be the right tunnel. He hadn’t made a disastrous blunder by choosing to come here. Please. The cellar door had been a trap, he knew that. He had to have made the right choice. He had to be in the right tunnel. He had to be.
As it turned out, he didn’t actually see the steel gate until he nearly ran into it head on. He slammed to a stop right before he did though, shocked at its sudden appearance, afraid he might be hallucinating it was actually there.
But he wasn’t hallucinating. The gate was there. He’d made the right fucking turn.
He pressed on the computer panel and the section slid to the right, revealing an entry pad. He entered the password, heard the beep, pressed his thumb to the biometric pad, heard the second beep, and felt his breathing ease when with a click, the lock opened. He gripped and turned the handle and gave the gate a push, and then he was inside.
Just hundred more yards now. It was still dark but he knew he was closer so he walked with a purpose, his feet sure, his eyes alert in the weak light of the lighter. He knew the moment he’d reached the point where the tunnel ran next to the cellar. He’d gotten a thick concrete wall erected right at the point the tunnel’s boundary touched the cellar, and it was disguised on the other side so as to look like just another ordinary wall, so that no one would ever find out there was anything behind it.
But that was not the actual exit point into the House.
That honor went to the old closet in the Game Room—the one he kept his sports equipment and riding gear in.
Brian didn’t know why he’d never gotten that door permanently closed. It was a trap door—the kind you only saw in spy movies, leading secret passages into secret tunnels dug deep into the earth. He didn’t know why, even with the kids staying in the House—and Gus came every summer and winter to spend a few weeks at the House—he’d never gotten, what essentially was a dangerous exit into a hundred year old tunnel, closed.
Whatever the reason—now, as he climbed up the small opening into the concrete foundation of the House and then slid up the narrow section that brought him just under the closet floor, he was damned glad he hadn’t gotten it closed.
It took him a few definitive pushes to slide off the thick wooden planking and then he was inside.
The first thing he noticed was that his racquets and his riding gear were missing. In fact, the entire closet was stripped bare.
The second thing he noticed was that... the house was filled with sounds.
He opened the closet door and stepped out into the Game Room, closing it behind him. It was pitch dark in the room and for a second, he wondered if he should perhaps look for something to use as a weapon, but then the sounds coming from outside the room distracted him. He slowly walked to the room’s door, grabbed the doorknob and turned it, pushing the door an inch to peer into the lobby beyond.
Lights. There were lights inside. No. Not lights. Not exactly. Was it the television? But no, that wasn’t it. What the fuck was going on?
He closed the Game Room door behind him and walked to the door that led to the dining room. The sound was coming from somewhere inside. He paused at the doorway and strained his eyes in the darkness. No. Not the dining room. Beyond. In the Great Room.
He didn’t realized he’d walked until he found himself in front of the closed double French doors in front of the 12-seat dining table and, looking through the glass, unmoving. It wasn’t the television but it was a film all right. It was a film projecting right on the wall above the fireplace. It was...
It was Justin. In the tunnels.
With the madman. Kicking and screaming and struggling. Crying.
Justin. Crying.
Brian! Brian!
He watched the horror show play out before him, watched Justin pushed down on the blood-streaked floors as the psycho shredded his shirt with a sharp-edged knife, watched the axe rise high in the air and then come down just as Justin’s face contorted with a scream as it landed inches away from his head.
Brian felt his throat close. This was what Justin had been saving him from. This was what he’d gone through. In the tunnels.
In the....
He heard a creak from somewhere behind him and felt a chill run down his spine when he heard the voice.
"I’m surprised that this surprises you, little boy!"
Brian froze. It was the clown.
"You should’ve known you’ll be abandoned in the end, just like always." The voice was coming from the lobby, near the stairs, he realized as he watched the image of Justin fight with the madman eleven days ago. "They always abandon you, don’t they?" Scoffing laughter. The clown was talking to Justin. In the present. Justin whom he was yanking and shoving and dragging through the tunnels in the images running on the wall. "Your father, your family..." Brian found himself turning, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the images, as he moved to the door and silently and paused at the threshold. "...and your cursed, cowardly, faggoty lover!" The spitting contempt in the words made him press his lips tightly. "Well, it’s time for the end of your pain."
No.
Brian looked back one last time at the images playing on the wall and saw Justin claw at the masked face, his shirt in tatters—still fighting, still struggling, even in the midst of his terror. He heard the front stairs creak and turned away from the images, having seen enough. He took one step to stand at the doorway and turned his head a fraction and knew.
The clown was going upstairs.
For Justin.
85.
The second storey landing from where one looked down into the Great Room was formed into a perfect square. It was almost like a perimeter walkway over the room, the ornate wooden balustrades running along the four great walls, looking down into the heart of the room below.
The master suite was the first room one saw upon climbing the stairs, right at the center of the front landing, with the door to the covered terrace tucked to one side of it and the recreation room on the other. Right across from the suite, on the other side of the landing, was the small library flanked on two sides by the two guest rooms, and an open lounge area right in front of the balcony/terrace door rounded up the entire first floor plan.
For some reason, all the rooms, other than the master suite, had connecting doors joining one to the other, but Justin had found all the doors locked when he’d checked earlier. The door to the terrace where he’d come in from was also locked now—effectively blocking all his exists and escape routes other than the stairs below.
The stairs from where he could now hear the psycho climbing up.
Not that Justin was planning to run anymore.
He’d had enough.
He’d heard and seen more than he’d bargained for. The thing was... no matter how much he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to hide from the images because wherever he’d gone, the cursed recording had already been playing. He didn’t know how many projectors the psycho had installed across the House, he couldn’t seem to spot even a single one of them in the darkened corners, but the same fucking images, the same repetitive footage kept on looping over and over and over again.
And then there were the words. The despicable, pathetic message. The bullshit lies he knew he was not going to listen to anymore. It was all a mind game for the psycho and while Justin knew he was no match to an armed adversary – he knew that from experience – he was not going to fucking take it anymore.
Seeing the images, watching the blood, the struggle, the pain, had only reminded him of the agony he’d gone through hearing Brian screaming for him in the tunnels. The agony Brian had gone through thinking he’d been killed—hacked to death. And the horror they’d all faced afterwards. When the security guard had found him locked in the room at the end of the tunnel and he’d come out and seen Brian... laid out on the stretcher—white as a sheet. Seen the paramedics giving him electric shocks, trying to revive him, to save him.
The night Brian had almost died.
Because that’s how Brian was. He made himself responsible for Justin’s safety despite the odds. He appeared cruel and cold and unemotional when he had a logical point to score, and even though Justin almost always reacted strongly to those perceived shortcomings, Brian’s eventual actions had always betrayed his true intentions. He’d always tried to save Justin, always done his utmost to take care of him at every turn their lives had taken. Unfortunately, what that meant was that the times he hadn’t succeeded, he’d fallen apart. Every time Brian had imagined himself a failure at protecting him, he’d crumbled.
And if it hadn’t been the circumstances, it had been Justin who’d let him down. Who’d made him bleed. Who’d disappointed him.
Well, not anymore.
Justin heard the psycho reach the top of the stairs and felt his heartbeat speed up and his pores get hot as his fists curled and his teeth gritted. It was that instinctual urge to fight that had always pushed him. Because fleeing was not an option. He’d checked that out himself. The doors were locked, the windows were boarded up. He was effectively cornered.
So his only choice was to fight.
He might still be killed, still be fucking hacked to death, but he was not going to go down quietly.
For a moment, he imagined Brian was somewhere close to him. That he was inside the House and had come to save him. And this thought, that Brian was somewhere close by, near him, filled Justin with a strange sort of relief. Even if it was imaginary. Even if it was only in his head.
Because the truth was he didn’t know where Brian was. He didn’t know what had become of the stables. He didn’t know if Gus and Mel had been saved. He didn’t even know how long he’d been locked in here because his cell phone wasn’t even turning on anymore and he’d never learnt to wear a wrist watch and all the fucking wall clocks in the House had disappeared.
He could almost laugh at the irony of it. He’d been made a prisoner in his own house. He didn’t know where to go, what to do, where to hide, how to get out of here.
But the time for running was over.
The psycho was now on the landing across from him, standing in front of the closed door of the master suite, looking at him from the other side of the railing.
"You know, I don’t really blame you," he said as he started to walk around the landing, prompting Justin to move to his right, from in front of the library to the guest room to the open lounge, as the madman moved towards him from the other side. "It’s not your fault you were corrupted at such a young age." Besides the axe, he now held something else in his hand which Justin couldn’t make out in the darkness. "You’ve just been brought up and dragged up in the company of filth and decadence." He scoffed as he reached the area between the two guest room doors, right across from the open lounge area. "Too bad the one person you trusted the most has let you down so tragically."
And then suddenly he turned around, opened the door of the first guest room and stepped inside – shutting the door behind him.
Justin stared at the closed door for a moment, his heart thudding in his chest, his nerves thrumming. What was he doing? Where was he going?
And then the dots joined in his head.
One room connected to the next to the next to the next---
Without waiting another moment, Justin ran towards the stairs, his breath puffing, his mind screaming -- there’s no place to run, no place to fucking run, to hide, to escape – but before he could reach them, the door to the recreation room opened and the psycho stepped out right in front of him, the axe raised in his hand. "Where the hell do you think you’re running, leetle boee!" He sneered as he swung the axe right as Justin ducked his head, missing it by inches.
Justin cursed and swiveled on his feet – there’s no place to run, the voice screamed in his head, no place to fucking run – as he ran towards the lounge and reached for the small wooden coffee table, grabbed its legs and picked it up. The smell reached his nostrils just as he turned around to face the psycho.
Gasoline.
"I’d wanted your cursed, corrupting lover to be here when I came to the finale of my grand plan," the psycho said as he raised what looked like a burning flare in his hand, "but I guess it’s just you and me now." And with that he threw the stick down on the stairs and Justin watched, aghast, as the staircase went up in flames with a small blast. "Where are you going to run now, leetle boee?" the psycho mocked just as he charged at Justin, axe raised high.
And Justin took two strides and met him halfway, swinging the table with both hands, his face twisted in a snarl. Metal and wood met with a loud crack as the sharp blade sunk into the oak wood top and Justin used that leverage to shove as hard as he could. "FUCK YOU, YOU BASTARD!" he yelled as he felt the psycho’s step falter and pushed him back against the railing, the flames lapping at their skin—the whole fucking landing was now on fire. And then a knee connected sharply with his hip and with a gasp, he staggered back.
"I’LL CUT YOU, YOU FUCKER!" the psycho screamed as he rushed him again, the axe whipping an arc through the air as Justin shoved the table in his face to stop the blow. The axe connected with two of the legs this time, one after the other, chopping both in half, and suddenly Justin found himself holding two stumps in his hands. The axe swung again and he ducked again and then lunged at his attacker sideways. His shoulder connected with the psycho’s midriff and he heard a painful cry as fingers clawed at his arms to push him back.
And then suddenly he was on his back. "I’LL CUT YOU IN PIECES, YOU LITTLE FUCKER!" the psycho spat in his face as Justin scrabbled at his arms, his legs kicking.
"FUCK YOU!" he screamed, even as he felt his strength waning in the face of the psycho’s weight, as he grappled with the madman, clawing at his neck and chest, barely rolling away as he saw the axe come down and sink into the wooden floor next to him. "FUCK YOU!" he screamed as he raised his knee and kicked back as hard as he could, as he heard the sound of glass shattering –it’s the heat, it’s the fucking fire, the voice in his head cried– and felt the flames licking around them. "FUCK YOU!" he screamed as he saw the psycho hoist himself up on his knees and lift the axe to bring it down once more.
When suddenly he was pulled off his body.
"JUSTIN!"
For a moment he was lost. He knew the voice. He could recognize that voice with his last fucking breath. But his brain couldn’t compute the possibility. It couldn’t be. It had only been in his head. It had only been his imagination. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t...
He raised himself on his arms and saw Brian locked in a chokehold with the psycho, his right arm clamped around his neck as they thrashed together, his face twisted into a mask of terror mixed with rage. The glass pane of the terrace door was shattered behind him, the patio stool used to break open it lying upturned to one side.
"BRIAN!" Justin yelled as he scrambled to his feet, his eyes searching for the axe. It was lying two feet behind them and suddenly galvanized, he dashed towards it, his breath stuttering, his hands reaching out for the weapon. But before he could make it, he felt the psycho’s leg whip out and connect with his shin and down he went with a wheeze.
"JUSTIN!" he heard Brian’s scream as he heard them struggling again, and turned to see the psycho on his hands and knees, clambering towards the fallen weapon. "GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!" Brian yelled as he threw himself on top of the man to prevent him from grabbing the axe. No fucking way! For a moment, he saw Brian’s fingers touch the wooden throat and then heard Brian’s painful gasp as the psycho’s elbow connected with his ribs and the axe was once more in his hand.
"BRIAN!" Justin yelled as he saw them rise to their feet, with Brian’s fingers desperately hanging on to the psycho’s tattered clothes and the axe clutched tightly in the psycho’s grip. He saw Brian evade one punch, then another, but that gave the psycho the leverage to fully turn around and charge at Brian with a loud snarl.
"YOU SCUMBAG!" he roared as he pushed Brian against the wall, the axe swinging in the air, only to sink into the wall—the plaster shattering—as Brian dodged the blow. The next blow was blocked as Brian slammed his fist at the psycho’s chin and Justin watched –his mouth open in a perpetual scream– as they grappled, shoving and kicking at each other.
He didn’t know when he’d moved but he found himself on the psycho’s back, clawing at his arms. "LET GO OF HIM!" he yelled, just as the psycho’s elbow jabbed into his chest and he heard Brian scream his name as pain exploded in his senses. His hold weakened as he saw the axe come whooshing towards him and pulled to one side to evade it. He watched Brian grab the psycho’s swinging hand and suddenly Justin found himself pushed to one side as Brian shoved the psycho back and threw him against the burning railing. The psycho’s claws clutched at Brian’s clothes and pulled him against him as they slammed against the balustrade with all their weight...
...and the railing broke and Justin watched, horrified, as the two men crashed down from the landing and into the room below.
"BRIAN!" Justin screamed as he rushed to the edge of the broken railing and saw them down there, in the middle of the flames and blustering smoke filling the Great Room, still locked together in a throttlehold, still fighting.
In the midst of the chaos, with the smoke filling the landing and the flames on and around the staircase high enough to touch the ceiling, Justin heard the distinctive sound of approaching sirens. The police. Wasting no more time, he turned around and ran through the broken terrace door, his feet slipping over the glass as he grabbed at the railing and scrambled down the winding stairs. There was smoke everywhere and he could feel the heat lashing at him as he reached the landing and ran through the corridor into the kitchen, the walls engulfed in flames, and from there into the lobby.
He heard voices from outside calling for them and pounded on the front door. "HELP!" he screamed. "WE’RE IN HERE! HELP!"
Someone tried to open the door from outside so he ran into the Great Room and found Brian on the floor, helpless under the psycho’s weight, as the psycho clutched at his neck viciously. The axe was nowhere to be seen in the billowing smoke.
"BRIAN!" Justin screamed as he heard someone pounding on the front door. He turned around, his breath heaving, his heart skipping –what to use? what to use?– when his eyes fell on the object lying half hidden under the patio table next to the front door.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
It was a brown envelope.
With a Pittsburgh postage stamp on it.
86.
Brian couldn’t breathe.
His hands still clutched at the madman’s arms, still shoved and scrabbled at his chest and face and neck, but the smoke and the heat and the fire and the sheer fucking exhaustion of the last never-ending hours combined with the fact that his air passage was currently being blocked by choking barbarous claws made him realize that his time was running out. He felt the madman’s knees digging into his chest, increasing the pressure and kicked weakly at the stranglehold, only one word thrashing inside his head as he felt his grip loosen with the lack of oxygen.
Justin.
He felt the vice like grip around his neck tighten and felt his eyes roll back in his head as the pressure doubled and he heard his heartbeat slowing and his vision blurring...
...when suddenly there was this great deafening bang that stunned his senses.
For a second or two, he didn’t know what had happened. The sound seemed to reverberate in his ears and inside his head like a recoil from a Colt Python and it took him another moment to realize that’s exactly what it was: a gunshot.
"Brian?" he heard Justin’s frightened voice calling for him, just as he realized the psycho’s grip on his neck had slackened. He blinked through the smoke to look up into the sightless eyes peering at him from behind the Skull mask and the realization hit him just as Justin started screaming. "BRIAN?" his voice was shaking as he sobbed. "BRIAN?"
He was alive. They were alive. He’d shot him. Justin had...
Brian removed the dead man’s claws off his neck as he attempted to roll the body off him. "Justin!" he gasped.
"Oh God!" He felt Justin’s hands clutch at his sleeves and his hands as he was pulled out from under the dead weight. "Oh God!" As he wound his own arms around his lover, his senses still thrumming with shock.
"Are you... okay?" he asked, coughing, as he clung to Justin desperately. "Jus--?" He touched his shaking hands to Justin’s face as he tried to breathe through the choking smoke. "Are you...?"
But all Justin did was repeat his name over and over again as their arms tightened around each other and they gripped each other desperately, holding on, clutching frantically, still not sure that this was not a dream, a hallucination, a mirage.
And that’s how they were found when the police broke down the doors and came inside. As too many men –cops, firemen, God knew who else– swarmed inside the burning house and they were led out through the front door and out into the cold, breezy night.
The first person Brian saw was Melanie being held back by some cops and – God, she’d made it! She’d fucking made it! – saw her spring free from their clutches when she laid her eyes on them, and run towards them. "Brian! Justin!" she cried as she reached them, her breath heaving. "Oh my God!" She looked at them in shock. "You’re... You’re..." And then, dumbfounded, Brian watched as she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
And then they were swarmed by paramedics and policemen and Brian saw Jennifer and Lindsay and Michael in the throng. But all he could care for was Justin’s presence next to him. Alive.
They’d made it. They’d made it!
"Oxygen!" he heard Justin say. "Can anyone get us some oxygen?"
Bewildered, he looked at Justin as he waved to a paramedic. "Justin? What?"
"He’s inhaled smoke," Justin was talking to the paramedic, "he’s had too much exposure, can you please give him some oxygen?"
"Justin!" he gripped Justin’s arm to get his attention, "Justin!"
"He had a stress cardiomyopathy attack ten days back," Justin was babbling, "his heart stopped and he was in the hospital for ten days." He tried to push Brian on a stretcher the paramedic was laying out, "Please, he’s had too much.... exertion, could you... could you give him some oxygen?"
"Justin!" Brian gripped his chin and turned his face towards him. "I’m fine," he said, looking into frightened eyes. "I’m fine!"
And Justin’s face contorted as tears finally spilled form his eyes. "Shut up, Brian," he sobbed as he looped his arms around his neck and pulled him close and pressed his lips to his cheeks. "Shut up! Just shut up!"
His heart squeezing, Brian wrapped his arms around Justin once more, his eyes blurring with tears. "Justin," he said chokingly, as he rubbed his face into his lover’s hair, breathing in his scent, and held on tightly—for life.
And behind them, the House that he’d bought for his prince five years ago continued to blaze into the night.
******
Continued next.
