Homer's deep baritone voice played on the air as if it were being spoken from eight different mouths. "They're in room 109/kill those b.i.t.c.hes/make them suffer/say it's for me/say it's for Homer Winch.e.l.l you're dead/those b.i.t.c.hes/those f.u.c.king greedy b.i.t.c.hes/they play the game well/how well will you play the game, Dr. Steinke?"

Exiting Homer's room, he entered a great cloud of yellow fog. He picked up his pace, searching for the nurses. The voices in the air increased. They teased, taunted, and encouraged him with every step he advanced up the hallway to room 109.

He refused to die. Dr. Steinke wouldn't give up the battle for survival.

I'll do anything to live that much longer. I'll even kill those two b.i.t.c.hes. I want to kill them so much!

Dr. Steinke charged into room 109. He caught Barbie Belle using a bone saw on Mrs. Allandale's ring finger to claim her wedding ring. The yellow fog was so thick in this room, he didn't have a chance to catch Jill Olson drag her scalpel across his ceratoid and jugular arteries. As Dr. Steinke gasped for his life on his knees, blood trickling heavily between his threaded fingers, Homer Winch.e.l.l's voice played on the air. Homer was laughing at his death. Then hundreds of voices of the dead erupted, covering up Homer's laugher. They dead were collectively amused, especially when Dr. Steinke's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he expired.

Jill and Barbie stepped over his corpse and continued on to the next room in search of more valuables.

Those who weren't dead were in hiding, Sheriff Reeds gathered, as he drove cautiously about Blue Hills in his patrol car with his shotgun in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. Dead bodies were bleeding on the streets or left on their property shot up, stabbed, or beaten to death. The casualties added up to more than half the population of Blue Hills, but that left a lot of locals alive who'd fight for their lives tooth and nail. Whatever that meant, Sheriff Reeds would keep patrolling town and hope he too eventually found what he needed to survive another day. The ache between his shoulder blades when he woke up with this morning had died down to a dull ache, but the pain would return again soon. When it did return, he'd have to heed his body's demands. The only consolation Sheriff Reeds could give himself was that he had plenty of shotgun sh.e.l.ls left to go around for anyone who crossed his path.

He would do anything to live another day.

BRANDY.

The Bingo game ended at eight-thirty on the dot. After talking to the ladies for fifteen minutes afterwards about "America's Got Flair" and Hannah, Brock was on his way to walking home when Hannah's car pulled up to the curb. Taken by surprise, he loaded himself in to the pa.s.senger seat, and eying his lady, he was impressed by Hannah's red skirt and tight-fitting white b.u.t.ton up top. She drove the car two blocks before he asked, "So what do I owe the honor of being picked up? How long were you waiting out there?"

"Ten minutes." Hannah half turned to him, a smile creeping across her lips. "Those ladies sure love you. I swear they were about to throw their Depends at you like you were Wayne Newton."

"They were asking me about the TV show, and you."

"You're their grandson."

"I am."

"No wonder you love going so much. You get showered with attention."

"Who me? You're just jealous you didn't think of it first." He realized they were driving back near his apartment, but then she pa.s.sed the turn off. "Wait, are we going to your apartment?"

"Yes."

The answer was too simple. It should've been a loaded response, and Brock knew he was in trouble.

"Brandy's going to be there, isn't she?"

Hannah had a way of staring off and pretending she hadn't heard him, and she was utilizing that ability right now.

"So we're seeing your sister. Did you tell her you asked me to marry you?"

She said softly, "She knows."

"Do you want me to talk to her?"

"Yes and no."

"Yes and no, what does that mean?"

"It means she wants to talk to you, and I'm going to have to let her, because if we're going to be married, Brandy says she needs to set a few things straight for the record."

"For the record." Brock mulled it over. He caressed her leg, resting the flat side of his palm against her inner thigh. "I'll do anything for you, Hannah, even take verbal b.i.t.c.h slaps from your sister. They're deserved."

She shook her head. "They're not deserved."

"We have a troubled past together, so yes, I deserve some berating. I'm the bad boy who turned your life upside down."

"Well, it's better now. We're sober. Brandy needs to realize that and start getting to know you. You're going to be family."

Brock was suddenly so grateful for her just as he was grateful for his blue hairs at the community center. He was on the verge of crying, feeling like his life was finally coming full circle in a good way, but he kept his emotions in check, especially when he noticed how Hannah's eyes were teary from a long cry.

"You had an argument with her, and you came right over to pick me up, didn't you?"

"Brandy wants to clear the air right now, so I said I'd bring you to the apartment."

"You stick up for me a lot."

"I do."

He kissed her cheek. "Okay, I'll jump into the lion's den if it means making things easier," he leaned in and whispered in her ear, "when I marry you."

Her smile was infectious. "I want you to kiss me, Brock."

He leaned in, kissing while she drove, their lips biting at each others with playful zest. The nice feelings would end when he had a talk with Brandy. When they arrived at the parking lot outside of Hannah's apartment building, he stepped out of the car. Hannah remained seated.

"Aren't you coming in?"

Oh no, she's not coming in.

"I reached an agreement with Brandy. She decided it was best you two had a one-on-one talk."

He mouthed "one-on-one" and looked on at Hannah as if he'd been captured in the harshest, brightest spotlight in mankind's history.

Brandy's going to let me have it good.

She doesn't want any witnesses to the crime.

'Oh Sis, he up and ran away. He disappeared. Who knows where they'll find your future hubby's body? I guess if they don't find the corpse, you can't marry him. Oh well, you'll find a better man. And I'll pick him out for you. This is a small b.u.mp in the road, Brock being murdered.'

Hannah offered him a sullen face. "I know this is hard. I have a feeling this will win you into her good graces. Show your good faith by talking to her."

I have to be a man about this.

I don't even know what the h.e.l.l that means in this situation.

Brock gave in. "Well, honey, family can either be the warmest, nicest, most comforting thing in one's life, or it can be another four hours with the in-laws at Thanksgiving. If I want the better option, I have to take this walk."

"Brandy will call me on my cell phone when you guys are done." She blew him a kiss. "Good luck, Brock. I owe you one."

"You did me a favor by asking me to marry you because my stupid a.s.s was too chicken s.h.i.t and stupid to realize a good thing when I had it. I owe you a favor. I'm going to do this. I'm going to make good with your sister."

Hannah's apartment was on the fourth floor. There was also something honorable in what he was doing, he kept telling himself. He traced back to his past romances. There was no pageantry in those relationships. He produced films, busted his a.s.s raising money, dealing with the normal pre-production woes, and between projects, he'd hook up with an actress or a fellow producer. A few easy going dates. s.e.x. And then something better would come along for both parties, and that'd be it.

I'm going to show her who I am. Brandy will have no choice but to like you. She'll treat you like a brother. She might grow to kind of like me, maybe.

His nerves of steel melted once he stood outside the apartment door. His hand was arched over the door to knock, but he paused. His wrist had locked. Stage fright was setting in. He had seen beyond the gates within the coliseum, and he realized his sword and shield was nothing compared to the lioness who waited inside the apartment ready to devour him for his past sins.

Brock finally knocked on the door and waited for a reply. The air around him suddenly picked up speed. It whistled through the nearby trees, warning him to run for his life, duck and cover, don't turn back, that it wasn't too late to save himself. Hannah would understand if he decided to renege on his decision to have this talk with Brandy.

If you can't do this, what makes you think you can save Angel?

That convinced him to knock again, this time speaking up, "Are you in there, Brandy? Hannah said you wanted us to have a talk."

He waited a full ten seconds. It was enough time for the wind to calm and dissipate. He barely heard through the door, "It's open."

Brock edged open the door. Once he had one foot inside, he was seized by the wrist and yanked forward into the apartment. The door slammed closed behind him. He landed on his hands and knees, thrown so hard. He was confused, afraid somebody else was in the apartment besides Brandy. Before he knew what had happened, he was seeing stars. A lamp had been smashed over the back of his head. The porcelain pieces rained down his face and back. Before he could blink the stars out of his eyes, Brock was lifted back up by the collar of his shirt, hoisted by a strong force. A left hook later, his jaw clocked, the motion of flesh, an arm, a fist, a pivoting fighter, it all blurred into senseless motion.

Brock was a helpless idiot in the face of the pummeling of a lifetime. He wasn't prepared for the swift upper cut to the stomach that hurled him up against the wall, his back absorbing the pain, the contents of his stomach threatening to lurch up his esophagus and out of his mouth. He did his best to beg for mercy when a red Puma shoe attached to a foot struck home between his legs, forcing back down the words. The spike of nausea creeping up his belly, he melted onto the ground, wincing, wheezing, and moaning softly to bemoan the pain in his b.a.l.l.s. He was closer to vomiting now with the sensation of his b.a.l.l.s being crushed repeating in dizzying pangs. He squeezed his eyes shut and tears crept free.

After five minutes of being spread out on the carpet, the agony of his b.a.l.l.s reduced itself to a low broil. Gaining his sense of sight back, Brock studied the room antic.i.p.ating a new attack. He spotted Brandy standing above him. She wore an a.s.s-kicking outfit, one with much flexibility, namely a pair of sweatpants, sports bra, and her black hair styled into a ponytail. Her expression was one exempt of apology, of a woman who had taken martial arts cla.s.ses after being raped and facing off with her previous aggressor. Her menacing face challenged him to get up, to take her on, to fight back and give her a new reason to kick his a.s.s some more.

Her voice was gravel. "Get up, you a.s.shole. Are you going to take it? You going to take it from me, you f.u.c.king washed up a.s.shole?"

Brock leaned his back up against the wall. He could've charged at her, barreled into her chest, but that wasn't who he was. He wished no harm upon her despite the fact a warm bullet of blood was crawling down his face. There was an open gash at his scalp.

Brock was still afraid to say the wrong thing.

"You can't have my sister, you d.i.c.khead." She spat in his direction. "They say once a junkie, always a junkie. That won't be my sister because she won't be with you. You'll stay a junkie, and Hannah will find some rich, kind, big d.i.c.ked man to live happily ever after with. She'll forget about you in good time. Maybe no time at all."

Still furious, nostrils flaring, lips sneering so hard he could see a centimeter line of her teeth, Brandy bent over him, slapping him hard on the face, then yanking back his hair. "Don't you want a shot at me? You're not going to fight me? You a p.u.s.s.y? You a chicken s.h.i.t? Tell me what you are, because you're certainly not a man."

Brock did his best to absorb the pain of her blows. "I don't want to fight."

He was socked in the gut twice.

"You've apologized a lot in your life, Brock, but do you ever mean it? Am I supposed to be impressed that you've cleaned up? Because I'm not. You have a bad day, and instantly, you're back in rehab or stealing from my sister for drug cash."

Brandy wrenched back his hair again, twisting it back so hard he heard a crunch. Brandy's face gave a little, hearing the sound, as if she too were pained by the noise. "You can't have my sister."

"I love Hannah," Brock managed through thin gasps of breath. He was reeling from the attack, knowing he'd be suffering long after this was over with a nice collection of bruises and aches. "And you have every right to be mad at me and concerned for your sister. My only argument," he stopped, fearing another punch when she clenched her fists at her sides, "is that I've been sober two years. I've got a steady job. I have a sister I want to save from drug addiction. I can't be forgiven, but I can correct my mistakes and hope for the best from the people I've affected."

Brandy stepped back from him and turned her head down at him, frowning hard. He had thrown her for a loop. She was turning the events over in her head, shocked at herself that she'd shattered a lamp. There was spots of blood on the carpet and half his face was wet with blood. The cuts on the vascular parts of the body always bled like crazy, he thought, touching around the wound across his forehead.

She paced back and forth in front of him as he stood in place, observing his a.s.sault. "I'll be honest, Brock, I thought I had you pinned down as an abusive son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h. I a.s.sumed the worst of you in every department."

"I've earned it."

"Every man I've known to take a beating like that, from a man or a woman, especially s...o...b..'s like you, always fight back. They hit women, no problem. And you took it. You just took it."

Brock wiped the blood off his lips when the warm trail crossed over them. "I love Hannah. We're going to be family."

It was a dumb response, but considering the circ.u.mstances, it was the best he could muster.

Brandy confessed, "I had a plan all worked out. I'd beat the s.h.i.t out of you. You'd take a shot at me, and then I'd tell Hannah you hit me, and she'd never forgive you. You wouldn't marry her, end of story. But you," as if blaming him, "you didn't do anything. You just let me hit you like a stupid idiot."

She was horrified at the damage she'd inflicted upon Brock. Her plan had not only failed, she had channeled too much anger into him, leaving him a b.l.o.o.d.y mess. Suffering from that realization, Brandy frantically called out to her sister outside.

Brock rested in the back seat of Hannah's car as the sister's went at each other's throats.

"You said you were going to act like a Dad and ask him questions. Like his life expectations, why he loved me, why he was a better person now, not going Chuck Norris on his a.s.s! What has gotten into you?"

"Hannah, I don't know what came over me. I-I-I thought I'd give him a punch, and then he'd fight back, and then-"

"Then he'd hit you, and I'd have to turn him away, right? You realize how manipulative that is?"

"He's no good."

"You think he's no good, but you don't know him like I do."

"I don't have to know him. I see his a.s.s on TV, I saw what you were like after his parties. You weren't a sister anymore, and you weren't a person either. Brock was the one who allowed it. He fed you those f.u.c.king drugs."

"I made the choice. I kept coming to his parties, but we both went to rehab. And if you're thinking like that, you're saying the way Brock was, I was too, and I changed, right? Why can't he change?"

"But it's different."

"It's not different. I was as bad off as he was in rehab. I was clawing the walls, s.h.i.tting and puking from my withdrawals. You beat the p.i.s.s out of Brock. Jesus, Sis, look at him. He's b.l.o.o.d.y."

Brock tried to add levity to the conversation. "She tore me a new one."

They didn't hear him.

"He's all b.l.o.o.d.y, Brandy, G.o.d-d.a.m.n it, and you're still defending yourself. Berate him, say he's a big a.s.shole, but think about what you did. You kicked the s.h.i.t out of him. Don't you feel stupid he didn't fight back? The fact you wanted him to hit you disturbs me. Brock's trying harder than you are. He knows you don't like him, but he still wants you to like him."

Brock spoke up. "Wait, you two, just hold on. Brandy, can we start over? From scratch. I'll make you a deal. You write up a contract. Have a notary sign it. If I ever relapse, I lose Hannah. I'll sign it. I swear to you."

The deal caused them both to go quiet.

"Hannah means that much to me. No drugs. Ever. Two years, I've made it with your sister. We're the perfect team. We love each other. You only know the bad parts of me, Brandy. Give me a chance. I'll keep trying no matter how many times you kick my a.s.s."

Brandy mulled it over. She wasn't impressed with Brock, but his offer stuck true in her mind. "Okay, Brock, you've got a deal. You stay sober, or I kick your a.s.s to the curb."

"Can I add one stipulation to the contract?"

Brandy's eyes were coal black. She waited for his request.

"Please don't kick me in the b.a.l.l.s like that again. They're still lodged in my throat as we speak."