The Next God

by MB Mooney

  Richard froze. “You do?”

  “Yeah, I know you guys used to be kinda good friends, and I’d hate for you two not to be friends because of me.”

  Richard continued on acquiring food, Matt following a couple steps behind. “Look, whatever she told you, it has nothing to do with you. None of it’s your fault. You can’t know ...” Richard took a moment to pause. “Just what did she tell you?”

  Matt watched his friend, gazing up at him. “Pretty much that you guys used to be friends, you know, before ... your mom and all.”

  Richard spun on one heel to face Matt, who recoiled a step. For a moment, Matthew was actually afraid. “She told you about my mother?” Richard’s eyes flashed at Vikki, and Matt saw her sadly look away when she noticed their sudden attention. Richard turned back to his lunch, slowly. “She shouldn’t have told you that.”

  Matt sighed. “Why? You could have told me. What does it matter?”

  “What does it matter? It’s a private thing, Matt.” Richard took a deep breath. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand. Dammit, she can’t really understand. Do you know what it’s like to have all your friends look at you with these faces, like something’s deathly wrong with you, and they have to watch you, watch to see when you’ll crack?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never really had many friends.” And a long moment between them passed. “Maybe they’re just concerned. Maybe they like you, and they care about you.”

  Richard shook his head. “You have too much faith in the human race. I was a charity case. I’m not gonna be a charity case, man. I don’t need some stupid hand to hold onto.”

  Matt grunted. “Fine. We won’t hold your hand. We won’t even hold it out to you. I’m not asking to buy you dinner or pick out curtains or sit you on a couch and make you tell me your deepest, darkest secrets.” Matt watched as Richard set his tray on the counter and pay the minimal fee for his lunch. “I’m asking you to come over and sit with us and eat. And you can talk if you want to or you can not talk if you want, or whatever, man. I’m asking you to be my friend.”

  He stood there, just looking at Matt, this tall, towering, ominous figure holding a tray in the middle of the lunchroom at a high school in the middle of nowhere, and Matt pushed with his heart. He had said all that he would say, all the words that he could have possibly spoken to his friend in the limited amount of bravery that Matt could have held.

  “All right,” Richard said.

  Matt smiled, his heart lifting. “Good.”

  -----

  Richard carried his tray lightly, holding on to it like an anchor, and he followed Matt to the table where Vikki sat, watching him. No, she hadn’t told Matt very much; she couldn’t have. Matt wouldn’t have asked him to come over and sit with them. Matt’s sentiments centered around some tragic event in Richard’s past that explained his actions.

  Oh, if only it were that simple, Richard thought, laying his tray beside Matt and across from Vikki, who smiled at him anxiously, knowingly, and Richard understood that she had told Matt very little.

  He glanced over at Matt and saw his pleasant smile turn into a face of horror.

  “Richard — ” Only his name escaped Matt’s lips as he felt a weight bear on him from behind, and he fell, tumbling over the edge of the table, a sharp pain in his upper thigh rising as he hit the floor of the lunchroom.

  -----

  Marcus stood over Richard, his fists clenched. “Now it’s your turn, bitch!” he yelled, and Marcus heard the rumbling of movement around him in the lunchroom, the usual rustle of commotion as teens breathed in the fumes indicating that there would be a fight. He had been waiting for this for a long time. When he saw Richard, the long-haired, faggoty-looking bastard, moving across the large room all distracted and slow, he knew this would be his chance, his chance to finally give this hippie a good ass-kicking.

  “Get up!”

  -----

  Through the gathering crowd, Matt saw Richard begin to get up from the floor, slow but deliberate, his gray eyes staring straight at Marcus. Richard’s hair fell across his face, and Richard brushed it back with long fingers. And there was something about Richard’s eyes that impressed upon Matt a mysterious and vague feeling, one that Matt wished he could forget.

  Richard’s eyes did not give off an air of anger or sadness or fear or even excitement. They were suddenly bright and even more aware than usual, but they held with them a wave of ... of ... well?

  Coldness.

  Yes, that’s what it was, a cold, mechanical vibe coming from Richard. It permeated the room, filled Matt’s heart the more he looked at him. There was a complete absence of feeling, of emotion, of … humanity. Even more frightening, those eyes reminded him of the killer from his dreams.

  A chill passed over Matt as he watched Richard’s full, six-foot-two figure rise to meet Marcus Brooks.

  -----

  “I’m waiting,” the hippie bastard said to Marcus, and, what had that been, a smile? At least the hint of one, and that pissed Marcus off even more. He rushed Richard with a swinging right hook, a swing that carried with it all his confidence and strength and hate and anger, and immediately regretted it.

  His fist met only air, carrying him past his target and opening him up for the left jab that knocked Marcus a little off balance, enough that he couldn’t recover in time to avoid the straight right hand that connected with the space between Marcus’ eyes. His vision went blurry for a moment, but he could feel the hands on his back, hands of the crowd that had gathered, leaving a somewhat round and fluid area for these two individuals to work in. He could hear the mumbling, the laughter, the yelling, the encouragements, the insults that all surrounded him in one large sound that carried with it all the noise and anticipation that high school crowds could muster, but all he could think was: Get up, dammit, hurry!

  But he felt himself grabbed by fierce, strong hands and lifted off of the ground. His head spun, his body momentarily out of his control, and he only knew where he was when the hard lunchroom floor pounded on his back. The punches came immediately, one after the other, too fast and effective to count, one hand choking the collar of his shirt, the other meeting his face violently, and his mind clouded, clearing, clouded, clearing, clouded ...

  Marcus heard the screams of the teachers, and he prayed for their intercession.

  Stop him, he thought.

  Stop him before he kills me.

  -----

  All Richard knew was violent thought, perfect as if guided by an unseen hand. Every punch aimed and intended, no flailing or desperate act, all of it done with calm vision and control. He heard all the yelling and screams in the distance; it didn’t really matter to him, his focus was too great, but he also knew all that happened around him. It was distant but clear.

  His right forearm was grabbed suddenly, and he turned to this enemy, another stupid adversary. But the face stopped him.

  “That’s enough,” Vikki said. Her voice was quiet and calm. “That’s enough, Richard.” She held his arm firmly, raised high over him, his other hand grabbing at the front of Marcus’ shirt, the limp form swaying as Richard held him only a few inches off of the ground.

  His attention turned to Marcus.

  Marcus’ face was bloody, one nasty cut above his left eye, another over the right cheek and his nose was broken, if not completely crushed, the wounds already gushing crimson against the white of the lunchroom floor. Richard let go of Marcus, watching the body lamely bounce. He stood, shaking. His eyes began to tear. His vision blurred.

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “I could have ... I could have ...”

  He felt Vikki's hands on his waist, his back, those familiar hands, that touch that sparked more than memories, but he dismissed them. He saw only the battered and moaning human being laying at his feet in a crumpled mess.

  He could have …

  Then other hands grabbed him, screaming at him, but he didn’t hear them well. Both of his palms raised an
d covered his eyes, feeling the dampness of tears, hearing the fearful silence of the crowd, the students who had witnessed this spectacle. They tore at his arms and shoulders, tearing him away from Vikki and ... where was Matt? They led him out of the lunchroom and down to the front office. Although he didn’t resist them, he couldn’t register what was happening. All he could think was, my God, my God ...

  I could have killed him.

  Chapter 12

  Stepping out onto his front lawn, Andrew Franklin surveyed the house and the grounds a few hours after dark. He was a man of average height, and his athletic build moved easily underneath the designer jeans and the cashmere sweater. He loved cashmere, the way it moved against his bare chest, even here in the cold. Maybe it would snow tonight or over the next couple days. The slight breeze ruffled his black hair, a little too long and flapping around on his forehead, the long forehead he had inherited from his father and his father before him.

  But that was not all he had inherited.

  This house, for instance, filled him with pride for what his family had done over the years in this city. His father withheld responsibility of the business for so long, but his grandfather had died last year, giving the father no choice. Andrew was his father’s only son, the only legitimate heir to the fortune and the business. And although his father complained and made more out of past mistakes than they deserved, he couldn’t deny his son this chance, this ability to be who he was born to be. Andrew wanted that chance more than anything.

  And here he was, a man in his mid-thirties, with a family and a legitimate business to his name. Now his father had given him this house.

  There were three or four acres to the property, and the house took up at least a third of that. It was huge and white, more in the style of a beach house than the traditional homes that surrounded it. In the early seventies, his father had modeled it after the larger homes and mansions in California, the homes of the stars he had seen on a vacation while he was young, houses with large windows and long porches. Parts of it were dated, of course, but Andrew didn’t much mind. It sure beat his penthouse in the city. That place was a dump compared with this mansion, this castle.

  And Andrew felt like a king, here looking over the green lawn, deeply green even here in the winter, and the high walls, also white and very thick, that surrounded the property. They had been made to withstand just about anything that criminals could get their hands on in the early seventies. Of course, crime had come a long way since then. Only one gate gave entry to the property, a black, iron gate reinforced with steel, the best money could buy, with a computerized security system to support it, a security system meant to keep out anything and everything, designed by the best criminals money could buy.

  Couple that with ten men guarding important posts all around his house, and Andrew felt safe. He had argued with his father about the ten men, the fact that there would be only ten, but his father had explained that these ten men were ten of the most dangerous men in town, expensive men that owed the Franklin family a favor or two. There weren’t many successful businessmen in Atlanta that didn’t owe the Franklin family a favor or two. Andrew’s daddy had seen to that.

  Two men sat in perfect position at the front gate, both heavily armed with enough weaponry to take out a tank, one at each of the four entrances to the house, and the other four roamed the grounds, watching the wall and checking for any glitches in the security system.

  Andrew smiled and walked back into his house. The interior was flooded with light, bright light to showcase the art on the walls, mostly created by successful local artists who had made their way with some scholarship money from the Franklin Artist’s Foundation. Andrew thought it all looked like crap, all shapes and symbols – what happened to just painting a frickin’ mountain or something? - but it was worth money, so he liked it pretty well. He nodded to the man at the front door - he forgot his name - and sauntered up the wide, winding staircase that led to the next floor. Striding down the hall, he appreciated the softness of the carpet as it floated underneath his Italian leather shoes.

  He heard the noises from the bedroom, his daughter’s, and he pushed the door a little, looking at his wife brushing his daughter’s long, dark hair while sitting on the child’s elaborate bed. It was past time for them to sleep, but with all that had been going on and the armed men in the house, it took his wife longer to get the children tucked in.

  His wife, Bonnie, noticed him first, grinning at him, her hands lovingly extending the child’s hair and then brushing it, extending, brushing, on and on with the greatest care. Bonnie was an attractive woman, tall and voluptuous with bleached hair and sculpted eyes. His daughter, Ann, sat still and patient, six years-old and used to this nightly regimen. Her head turned slightly, her eyes brightening when she saw her father.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said, that cute voice filling his ears with wonder.

  “Hey, Punkin’,” he said, smiling at her.

  He felt hands at his pants, and his heart jumped in surprise. But it was only Tommy. He turned quickly and picked up his four-year-old son in one swoop of motion, his hands grabbing his son underneath the arms. Tommy squealed in delight, and Andrew rested his son on his hip. Andrew stepped further into Ann’s bedroom, filled to the brim with stuffed toys and expensive dolls, the door behind him halfway open.

  Then the lights went out.

  The whole house was suddenly dark, and he heard Ann scream before his eyes adjusted to the dark, to the cold moonlight now streaming in from his daughter’s only window. He could feel his son’s body tense with anxiety. Could he sense his father’s fear? Andrew held Tommy, the youngest male heir to the Franklin fortune and business, a little closer, patting the boy’s back to comfort him. “Everything’s okay,” Andrew said, and he hoped he was the only one who heard the slight strain in his voice. He looked at Bonnie and Ann, who had moved closer together into each other’s arms. “I’m sure it’s just ...”

  But the explosion didn’t allow him to finish. The sound of wrenching metal accompanied the deep rattling of the entire house, shaking the ground underneath Andrew, who came close to losing his balance. The explosion seemed to last forever, his son pressing hard against his neck and shoulder, his free hand reaching out for something to hold onto as the thunderous noise died down. He lost sight of his wife and daughter for a moment. He searched and found them immediately, clutching each other almost as tightly as Tommy choked his father. Ann began to cry. “Come on,” Andrew snapped in a whisper as if someone were listening just outside the door. “Let’s go.”

  His wife picked Ann up as she stood, rushing to follow Andrew as he led her down the hall. He heard his low footsteps pounding on the floor, his wife’s shuffling feet rustling on the carpet behind him. The sound of gunfire erupted somewhere outside, not in the house yet, and Andrew prayed that those men were worth the money as he heard his wife begin to sob.

  Andrew led them into the master bedroom and sat his whimpering son on the bed. His wife stopped at the door, then walked towards Tommy, sitting on the bed herself and holding both of her children as Andrew fumbled around in the dark underneath his bed. He found his 9mm automatic pistol after a mad panic passed. Standing to his feet, he pulled back on the pistol to make sure a round was in the chamber, then checking the safety. It was loaded.

  Walking around to the foot of the bed, his family watched him with frightened eyes. “Stay here,” he said. “And lock the door after I leave.”

  His wife shook her head. “Don’t go, please,” she said. “Stay.” And he heard his wife’s pleading, knew she needed him for comfort, but he had made his decision.

  “It’ll be all right,” Andrew said. “Just stay here and lock the door. You’ll be fine, I promise.” And without a kiss or touch or any show of emotion, he left his family in the master bedroom, closing the door behind him, waiting for the sound of the lock, and he cautiously trotted down the hall.

  He heard more shots, somewhere in the house now, and he cro
uched low, listening, his eyes darting while the sounds of his own nervous, haggard breathing became the only noises breaking the silence. The multitude of shots began again, a powerful pistol repeating after the rattle of a submachine gun. Andrew moved against the wall, cursing himself for making too much noise as he did, and walked soundlessly to the top of the winding staircase. He forced himself to peer around the corner, holding the 9mm up close to the side of his face with both hands.

  He felt a cold tensing of his knees, something to do with the fear, he thought, and he stepped into the open at the head of the stairway, keeping close to the wall, ready for any movement below him. As he ascended the stairs without much noise, he held the pistol high, his eyes focusing with all his strength. Reaching the bottom of the stairway, he was anxious at his position, so he sprinted to the front doorway.

  It was open, and just outside he saw a body, bleeding all over the immaculate green grass just outside the door. The man covering this position was dead or dying. Oh well, Andrew thought, screw him if he can’t do his job. Past the dead mercenary, Andrew could clearly see the front gate, all in shambles, twisted and tortured metal ripped and leaving enough room for a vehicle to move through the gate.

  Who was this asshole attacking his house his family? Not for the first time he asked himself who would have the balls to do this. But as heard about the dead bodies piling up in town, he knew what it had to do with. He knew who it had to do with. Doss was long gone, but Russell, Andrea, and then David. One crazy, ridiculous, and tragic night. Even now he remembered looking down and saying, Guys, he ain’t breathin.’ What are we gonna do? Doss hadn’t cared. Andrew was so glad he was dead.

  That cop had been obsessed over the case, and rightfully so. But that wasn’t the first tragic mistake that the Franklins had been able to cover up and erase. Daddy Franklin thought the cop was behind this somehow, but they had watched that cop. He wasn’t doing this. But whoever was, they were freakin’ serious, and they had the vengeance of hell behind them.