Page 53 of Four Stepbrothers for Christmas

The man's eyes darted back and forth between me and the guys. He seemed to be weighing his options. "Don't know no Mikey," he lied, his voice taking on a defiant tone.

I tried a softer approach, desperation sneaking into my tone. "Please, he's my brother. I just want to make sure he's okay."

Before he responded, the door was suddenly slammed in our faces, the sound of multiple locks being thrown into place echoing through the silence. A wave of panic hit me, my mind racing as I tried to figure out our next move.

However, before I could react, Isaac took a step forward, bracing his shoulder against the door, and with a display of raw strength, shoved until the door came completely off its hinges. It crashed to the floor with a deafening thud, leaving the druggie stunned, gaping at the doorway now void of any barrier.

Breathing heavily, I turned to Isaac with a hint of awe. "Well, that's one way to do it," I commented with a shaky laugh.

Isaac winked at me, his stance strong and unwavering, "Always here to open doors for you."

The man backed away, holding his hands up, clearly out of his depth. "Look, I don't want no trouble," he stammered.

Neither did I, but we were already knee-deep in it. We just had to wade through and find Mikey.

Walking into the house was like stepping into a grim alternate universe. The stench hit me first – a nauseating mix of body odor, stale cigarette smoke, and something acrid that I couldn’t quite place but which instantly set my nose wrinkling. The walls, possibly once white, were now a dingy yellow with splotches of brown and other unidentifiable stains. They seemed to absorb the meager light coming through the grime-caked windows, making the entire place seem eternally dim.

The floorboards beneath my feet groaned with every step, and I couldn’t help but feel they might give way under our collective weight. The living room we’d entered looked like a snapshot of misery. Tattered, moth-eaten couches, their stuffing erupting from various tears, littered the spaces, surrounded by all manner of debris: empty food containers, discarded needles, and overturned beer cans. Dirty mattresses lay here and there, bearing their own disturbing marks of wear and tear.

In one corner, a junkie was slumped over, so still my heart seized in fear. But then I noticed the faint rise and fall of his chest, his life still clinging on in this hellish place. Another woman, skeletal thin with hair like matted straw, was scratching absently at her arm, her vacant eyes never leaving the floor.

The junkie who'd locked the door was now against the wall, his eyes darting around the room in panic. He looked like a cornered rat, his hollow cheeks twitching and sweat forming on his brow. Every muscle in his scrawny frame seemed to vibrate with tension, clearly convinced he was about to get a thorough beating from the four guys.

Archer, his demeanor calm and even, took a step forward. "We're not here to hurt you," he said, though his voice had an edge that conveyed he meant business. "We just want Mikey. Where is he?"

The junkie's Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Young guy, right? Wiry, with blue eyes? He's... he's in the back," he stammered, his gaze darting toward a hallway leading deeper into the house. “But you need to take him and get the fuck out – fast.”

"What’s the hurry?" Vinnie inquired, narrowing his eyes.

The junkie's voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, fear evident in every syllable. "The Garcias. They run this place. If they catch you here, especially with Mikey..." he trailed off, leaving the implications hanging in the heavy air.

The blood drained out of my face. "We need to find him. Now." I had no idea who the Garcias were, but something told me I didn’t want to be here if they showed up.

I moved toward the hallway. The guys quickly took up positions, Vinnie and Isaac guarding the entrance while Archer and Luke kept watch from the living room, ensuring I had a clear path to and from the back of the house. I stepped over the threshold of the bedroom, gasping at what I saw.

Mikey's form was hard to distinguish among the squalor. The room seemed even smaller than the others, the air thick with the foul stench of decay and stale smoke. Worn-out wallpaper peeled from the walls in lifeless strips, and a broken window was patched up with cardboard and plastic. The acrid smell of meth and other substances I couldn’t identify cloaked the room– a choking aroma that made my eyes water and my throat burn.

The feeble light from the hallway revealed Mikey sprawled out on a filthy mattress. His skin was a pale, clammy shade, contrasting starkly with the dark circles under his eyes. His breaths came in shallow, uneven rasps, his chest barely moving. As I approached, I noticed his lips had taken on a bluish tint. It felt like a cold hand grasped my heart.

"Mikey," I whispered, my voice trembling as I reached out to shake him gently. His eyelids fluttered momentarily but didn't open, and he a low, throaty moan tumbled out of his mouth. Panic bubbled up inside me. What had he taken? Was he dying?

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my rising panic at bay. "Mikey, it's Becks," I coaxed, touching his face and feeling the clammy coldness of his skin. I wished fervently for some sign of recognition, a flicker in his eyes, a twitch of his mouth – anything.

Footsteps echoed behind me. I turned to see Isaac entering the room, his face etched with concern. Without a word, he bent down beside me, checking Mikey's pulse and then gently slapping his cheeks, trying to rouse him.

"He needs a doctor," Isaac said, his voice filled with urgency.

Behind him, Archer and Vinnie entered. Vinnie knelt, taking in Mikey's state, while Archer looked around the room, his eyes scanning for any immediate dangers.

"We need to get him out of here, fast," Vinnie said. He and Isaac carefully hoisted Mikey up, supporting him between them as they made their way back to the living room.

As I trailed behind the guys, my heart thudded painfully against my chest, each beat echoing the weight of the fear and desperation clawing at me. Mikey's usually animated face was hauntingly pallid, his eyelids fluttering weakly. Every shallow breath he took sent an icy lance of terror through my spine. The ominous shadows cast by the dilapidated buildings around us seemed to mock our frantic escape, whispering of the impending doom we might be facing.

"Mikey, please," I murmured as I watched Isaac and Luke support the bulk of his weight. My fingers clung to the cold skin of his wrist, desperate to feel the reassuring thud of his pulse. Memories of our childhood rushed back — Mikey chasing after me in the garden, shielding me from neighborhood bullies, always being the doting little brother. The idea of a world without him was unimaginable.

His lips, tinged with a dangerous shade of blue, quivered, and he managed a weak groan, forcing his eyelids open just a fraction. My heart soared.

"Becca," he rasped, the word barely more than a breath. But it was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. He was still in there, still fighting, and I would move heaven and earth to keep it that way.

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