Prologue:
He sat there in a drunken stupor, flame thrower still hissing, smell of burning flesh in the air. 'How'd it come to this?' he wondered. Through all the violence of the past 24 hours, the meaning was still lost. They are all dead. He feels…. nothing. Not anger, not sadness. No remorse, no happiness. All that time, all that energy spent on getting…even? Getting revenge? Wasn't revenge supposed to be sweet? Why after all that, he wonders, there's still no closure. No resolution to the nightmares. What did it all mean?
Ghosts are a funny thing. Sometimes they appear as visions, other times as voices. The quiet, still night air can call a man with the same breath as a lover in a warm bed on cool summer's night given the right circumstances. Sometimes, there's no end to the madness. Sometimes one loses themselves along the way. When the biggest piece of a person is lost, there is no knowing the depths one can sink to.
Some say the soul has its foundation in memories. Little synapses firing randomly at all the wrong moments. Bits of electrical energy in the brain making up all the thoughts a person can have. Their goals, their dreams. Even their nightmares.
Every human has their demons. Everyone. Remove the boundaries, remove the limits, remove the "safeguards" if you will and free will has an odd way of expressing itself. Remember, every action has an equal and opposite reaction regardless as to whether you are ready to see it through.
He chuckles in reference to the burning corpse in the corner. "I guess we're through here…" he says to the dead, stale air. The madness of it all, absurd yet pure. Revolting yet justified. The things we are capable of. The nightmares we can unleash. 'All "steps" in the right direction? Or are we too afraid to accept what we are?' He chuckles at the thought passing yet another again corpse, "You've only yourself to blame", he says laughing as he collects the flamethrower. Further purpose lost to him, yet not wanting to leave it behind as though it were a new friend.
'Who is to blame, really?' he wonders as he heads down the steps careful not to trip over the bodies. What a mess, really. There were better ways to do this, but hindsight is 20-20. On the way to the door, he hears the voice again, "Why?" it whispers. He smiles, lost at the thought. "Why indeed?" Humming a discordant melody, he stores the flame thrower in the side door of the maroon "plumber's" van. Lighting his third cigarette of the day, he mounts the driver seat and fires up the van. Amazing things humans are capable of. Simply terrifying but amazing.
Stowing his emotions, he heads down the long driveway past the empty burnt out shells of the black SUV's once filled with men simply doing a job. What did the death of the "hired help" mean in all this? Could he really be mad at men trying to make a living? Was he any different? Are any of us? He rounds the corner past the bullet ridden granite gargoyle, heads out the black wrought iron gate and into the street. The terror the night wrought is over. For now.
And through it all, nothing. It was as though the sun fell and rose and the Earth continued unphased by the warzone of the pearlescent mansion and the billowing smoke. Flipping on the vans preset channel, another morning news cycle was just beginning. "Top story this morning 'Warzone on the waterfront'." leads the headline and the sound fades into the warm morning air.
Chapter One:
Days Gone By
"Honey!! Have you seen my keys? I am going to be late!!"
Tripping over the laundry in the hall, he misses the cue to duck in the small bedroom doorway.
!!CRACK!!
"Fuck this god damn door!!" Balling a fist, he turns to strike the door with the wrath of a 10-year-olds rage. The first punch lands when she calmy states,
"You know that never solves anything. Now look, your hand is bleeding, and you're late. Come here, let us get you fixed up" she says.
"No time, got to run. Besides, it builds character!!" he says dashing out the door.
"Scares the customers too…" she mutters virtually to herself, shutting the door behind her.
Thomas Smith, the owner of Smith HVAC, rushed down the stairs and into his service truck. Smith HVAC was a small local upstart, the proud brainchild of Thomas after one too many bourbons and computer access. But Thomas was determined to see it through. To get out of the derelict cat lady den he and his beloved wife Samantha had rented going on 4 years now. They had desired children, but theirs was the environment of teenagers and first apartments. The putrid smell of the landlords Brussel Sprouts in the poorly vented apartment was enough to drive one mad, let alone be a suitable environment for the proper raising of a child. And the Brussel Sprouts are not even the worst of smells.
"One day at a time," Thomas silently thought on the way down the gravel drive "One day at a time".
Today was the beginning of a long work week. 4 jobs a day for 5 days. Good money but hard work. You see, so small was Smith HVAC that Thomas could not afford to hire an apprentice, so all the labor was to be done at the hands of the owner. That meant good money but hard work. 12-to-16-hour days, in all sorts of weather. Often Thomas was envious of the mail man. Same environment, less aggravation, better benefits.
'Might be something to a government job' Thomas found himself wondering on more than one occasion. Today was no different. As if on cue, Thomas found himself stuck behind the same mail truck puttering along as if today were simply a Sunday drive out in the country.
"You're not the only one on the road asshole!!" shouted Thomas as he angrily passed the mail truck on one of an untold number stops that day.
"God I'd love to just mosey on about the workday seemingly without a care in the world. Fuckers." muttered Thomas as he approached the red light.
As the weeks grew into months and months into years, Smith HVAC developed an almost cult like following among both the poverty stricken and wealthy alike. Known for a fair answer and a fair price, virtually everyone had come to accept Thomas's company into their home on both a regular and "emergency" basis. This sultry humid August day was no different. Pulling up to the grand mansion down on the waterfront, Thomas had realized that this house was different than the one described on the phone.
"Residential my ass. My money's on hack job commercial or overwhelmed residential air conditioning." Thomas said angrily. Of all the days to get a late start, a "No Cooling" on a hot muggy August day was one of the worst. Thomas's blood had already begun to boil.
"Another rich yuppie who's probably going to view me as their servant," he snorted. "Well jokes on you, asshole, I do flat rate billing Bahahaha" thought Thomas on the ride up the driveway.
Thomas felt that most of the "seemingly well off" clientele he managed were stingy when it came to parting with money that both he and the customer knew they had but the customer desperately tried to hang onto regardless of their station in life. Smith HVAC, while being a small local upstart, was slowly gaining notoriety as an accurate reliable repair company that while prices being seemingly average managed to maintain a down-to-earth hometown feel that was largely missed in the corporate buyouts that plagued the southern tier of the forest district. In all reality Thomas felt it largely came down to the difference between perceived wealth vs achieved wealth. The "stingy" were those of perceived wealth while those with "achieved" wealth largely had no perceived influence into Thomas's pricing.
Noticing the menacing gargoyle fixed upon the northern lawn as Thomas drove down towards the house delivered a feeling of déjà vu, simultaneously sending chills and a wave of anxiety across his body. Briefly, Thomas acknowledged the feelings and emotions but quickly stowed them because funding came from paying clientele, not fear. A white picket fence and house on the hill was the endgame after all. You cannot achieve that through fear, thought Thomas.