Page 62 of Massacre
My last thoughts were of her and the life she would lead.
It was a beautiful life, and I ensured it.
With my final breath, the whisper of her name on my lips, I welcomed the darkness as it closed in around me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ravage
It didn’t take me long to track Massacre to a diner outside the town of Kimbal. From there, he was easy to track, and when my search led me to an abandoned warehouse just north of Crawford, Nebraska, I knew that was where he would be. I gunned my bike, and my engine roared as I sped toward my destination. The wind whipped through my hair as I raced down the deserted streets; the moonlight casting an eerie glow on the asphalt ahead. I could feel the power of my bike throbbing beneath me, a beast eager to be unleashed.
I knew time wasn’t on my side.
As I neared the warehouse, I slowed my bike, cutting the engine as I coasted silently toward the entrance. The silence surrounding me was deafening as I slowly slipped from my bike.
I moved with practiced ease, a shadow among shadows.
I knew I had only one shot at this. I drew my weapon, a sleek, polished machete, and moved toward the door. The rusted hinges shrieked a mournful protest as I pushed open the warehouse door, a sound swallowed by the cavernous silence within. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light piercing the grime-coated windows, illuminating a scene that defied comprehension. The air hung thick and cloying, a miasma of decay and something else... something metallic and sharp, like the scent of old blood and my brother.
Or what remained of him.
He hung from the rafters, a grotesque marionette swaying gently in the nonexistent breeze. The rope, coarse and frayed,bit into his flesh, a stark contrast to the vibrant, mischievous glint he used to hold in his eyes. Those eyes, now swollen shut, were barely visible beneath the welts and bruises that blossomed across his face like a morbid, purple bloom. His clothes, once sharp and tailored, were now shredded, stained and soaked with his blood.
I didn’t recognize him at first. The man hanging there, a ravaged husk, was only distantly related to the brother I knew. The man who loved bad puns and terrible coffee, who could charm the birds from the trees with a single, crooked smile.
This... this was a stranger inhabiting my brother’s shell.
A stranger sculpted from pain.
A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm me, but a deeper, colder emotion settled deep within me. A burning, icy rage. This wasn’t just physical brutality; it was a deliberate annihilation of the spirit. The way my brother’s body contorted, the almost ritualistic precision of the wounds... it suggested something beyond simple violence.
It felt... orchestrated.
A strangled cry escaped my throat, a sound of anguish and fury. I wanted to look away, but I forced myself to study every detail of this macabre scene. My brother’s lifeless body, so brutally violated, held a story—a tale of torture and suffering. I owed it to him to bear witness, to remember every mark, every indignity inflicted upon him. In that moment, I vowed to uncover the truth behind this unspeakable act. I would find the motherfucker responsible and make him pay.
My rage would be his reckoning.
With trembling hands, I sheathed my machete, a tool now consecrated for vengeance, as I reached for my phone. Dialing Reaper, I stood there staring at him, unable to look away as the call connected.
“Brother.”
“Massacre is in an abandoned warehouse just north of Crawford, Nebraska. I’m sending the address now.”
“Is he alive?”
“Take care of Karlyn for me, Reaper. I won’t be back for a while.”
“Ravage,” Reaper shouted. “Is Massacre alive?”
“His soul rides forever, brother.”
“NO!” Reaper screamed into the phone as I disconnected, then sent the address.
I wouldn’t be here when my brothers arrived. I wouldn’t come back until I avenged him.
I knew my pursuit of justice might lead me down a dark path, but I was prepared to face the shadows head-on. As I turned to leave, my gaze fell upon my bike, my faithful steed awaiting my command. I would ride, not just for my brother, but for the justice that demanded to be invoked.
Walking to my bike, I heard the distant rumble of thunder and looked up as several bikes crested the hill.
