he made it back to his neighborhood, he was shaking uncontrollably.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Christopher woke to the sound of his doorbell ringing repeatedly and rapid banging on the front door. He sat up slowly, his head was pounding. On the floor was an empty bottle of scotch, left over from his father. His stomach turned at the faint smell of spilled liquor.
The Book and Weapon were in the far corner of the room where he had thrown them last night after he got home. After that it got fuzzy. He could remember stumbling around the house, looking for something, anything to dull the pain. He found the scotch, he had hoped for weed, but beggars can’t be choosers.
He had wandered the house with no real purpose, just sipping on the bottle and trying not to think. He wanted his mind empty, because when it wasn't empty, it was filled with horror. It was filled with blood and severed body parts. It was filled with looks of terror on faces. It was filled with screams and running.
At first he tried to tell himself it hadn't been him. It was the seed of hell inside him that took over, but that wasn't the complete truth either. His own anger and frustration fueled it until it was out of his control.
To think he had been comparing himself to Spiderman when he was jumping from rooftop to rooftop. No, he was more the super villain than the hero.
The loud knocking brought him back from his memories. He threw on a robe and moaned as he made his way downstairs.
Why can't the power heal my hangover like it does my body , he thought.
It was Hamlin at the door. One arm was in a sling and bandages were on his neck and forearm.
"Please tell me you aren't here to eat my brains," Christopher said.
"Was it you?" Hamlin asked. "Was it fucking you?"
Hamlin shoved past him and into the living room. Christopher closed the door and followed him in. He could guess what Hamlin was talking about.
"You found out? About the garage?"
"Garage? You mean the butcher shop where over a half dozen gang bangers were killed?"
Hamlin was pacing.
"I fucking knew it was you. The witnesses all said they saw a man with a huge sword lit up like it was the Fourth of July. They said you moved so fast it was a blur and then jumped from the street to the top of the building. I don't know what the fuck happened, but why the fuck did you kill those guys?"
"Calm down Hamlin, I'll try to explain what I can," Christopher said.
"Yes, you will kid, and you tell me everything. I should be arresting you right now, if I had any real evidence, I would. But if you don't tell me everything, and I mean fucking everything, I'll have a team over here with a search warrant and we’ll find your costume and sword."
Christopher fell into a chair nodding his head. Hamlin sat across from him.
"You look like shit kid."
"Drinking most of a bottle of scotch will do that to you,” Christopher said.
"Why the hell did you do that?"
"Contrary to what you might think, last night’s activities weren't exactly my idea. Not really my idea of a good time."
"Talk. And tell me everything, including what was going on with those zombies yesterday."
Christopher hesitated. What could he tell him? The truth was unbelievable. Maybe just some bits and pieces? But Hamlin was a trained interrogator. If Christopher tried to piece meal this story together the detective would see right through it, and he would lose what little trust he still had. Besides, his brain was in no condition to try and outthink the detective. In the end he went with this gut, he told Hamlin everything.
It was a little cathartic. He started off slowly, not really sure where to begin, but soon it was pouring out of him. Everything from the day he lost his girlfriend and met the Beast to last night when he killed nine people that didn't do shit to him.
Hamlin didn't say a single word the entire time. To his credit he sat and listened to every word Christopher said. By the time he was done, Christopher actually had some
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Christopher woke to the sound of his doorbell ringing repeatedly and rapid banging on the front door. He sat up slowly, his head was pounding. On the floor was an empty bottle of scotch, left over from his father. His stomach turned at the faint smell of spilled liquor.
The Book and Weapon were in the far corner of the room where he had thrown them last night after he got home. After that it got fuzzy. He could remember stumbling around the house, looking for something, anything to dull the pain. He found the scotch, he had hoped for weed, but beggars can’t be choosers.
He had wandered the house with no real purpose, just sipping on the bottle and trying not to think. He wanted his mind empty, because when it wasn't empty, it was filled with horror. It was filled with blood and severed body parts. It was filled with looks of terror on faces. It was filled with screams and running.
At first he tried to tell himself it hadn't been him. It was the seed of hell inside him that took over, but that wasn't the complete truth either. His own anger and frustration fueled it until it was out of his control.
To think he had been comparing himself to Spiderman when he was jumping from rooftop to rooftop. No, he was more the super villain than the hero.
The loud knocking brought him back from his memories. He threw on a robe and moaned as he made his way downstairs.
Why can't the power heal my hangover like it does my body , he thought.
It was Hamlin at the door. One arm was in a sling and bandages were on his neck and forearm.
"Please tell me you aren't here to eat my brains," Christopher said.
"Was it you?" Hamlin asked. "Was it fucking you?"
Hamlin shoved past him and into the living room. Christopher closed the door and followed him in. He could guess what Hamlin was talking about.
"You found out? About the garage?"
"Garage? You mean the butcher shop where over a half dozen gang bangers were killed?"
Hamlin was pacing.
"I fucking knew it was you. The witnesses all said they saw a man with a huge sword lit up like it was the Fourth of July. They said you moved so fast it was a blur and then jumped from the street to the top of the building. I don't know what the fuck happened, but why the fuck did you kill those guys?"
"Calm down Hamlin, I'll try to explain what I can," Christopher said.
"Yes, you will kid, and you tell me everything. I should be arresting you right now, if I had any real evidence, I would. But if you don't tell me everything, and I mean fucking everything, I'll have a team over here with a search warrant and we’ll find your costume and sword."
Christopher fell into a chair nodding his head. Hamlin sat across from him.
"You look like shit kid."
"Drinking most of a bottle of scotch will do that to you,” Christopher said.
"Why the hell did you do that?"
"Contrary to what you might think, last night’s activities weren't exactly my idea. Not really my idea of a good time."
"Talk. And tell me everything, including what was going on with those zombies yesterday."
Christopher hesitated. What could he tell him? The truth was unbelievable. Maybe just some bits and pieces? But Hamlin was a trained interrogator. If Christopher tried to piece meal this story together the detective would see right through it, and he would lose what little trust he still had. Besides, his brain was in no condition to try and outthink the detective. In the end he went with this gut, he told Hamlin everything.
It was a little cathartic. He started off slowly, not really sure where to begin, but soon it was pouring out of him. Everything from the day he lost his girlfriend and met the Beast to last night when he killed nine people that didn't do shit to him.
Hamlin didn't say a single word the entire time. To his credit he sat and listened to every word Christopher said. By the time he was done, Christopher actually had some
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