Wavering Faith (John x Garcia)

Chapter 7: Extermination

   This was it. Weeks of planning, preparing for this very moment. Sure, his first goal was obliterated, but this new one, oh, how much more entertaining and fulfilling it was! Truly, it would still be summoned, just through...alternate means. The idea had come to him in a dream, a divine revelation, if you will. He was divine, after all. A god in the flesh, perfection incarnate in a weaker, earthly form. He's going to show him that. Put him in his place. Yes, yes, he was.
   He shivered with anticipation as his knuckles made contact with the apartment door. Three even strikes repeated twice. No answer came immediately. What time was it? Didn't matter to him. He would complete his mission regardless. He would have him in his grasp, as he rightfully should. He didn't need a cult anymore, he could do his own dirty work. Oh, yes, this will be of his own agency, he himself will feel the pulse slow, the life ending beneath him. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. it was his right. it was his calling. it was his right. it was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his calling. It was his right. It was his
   ...a door opened. A hazy figure, grey in the shadows. The unmistakable clicks of a shotgun loading. Gary blinked. The figure was on the ground below him, a gentle thumping pressed underneath his clawed fingertips, thighs on either side of a desperately thrashing lower body. The gun was nowhere to be seen. He could faintly hear...yelling...?, but it was all underwater. Drowned out. His vision reduced to a pinprick of intensity and desire, he ground his molars together and tightened his grip. The rhythmic pulses were almost undetectable now. This was it.
   As he relished in the final moments of his enemy, he became aware of a spreading...coldness in his left side. No, it was a numbness. Was it? Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. He released the figure's neck quickly, running his fingers across the rapidly expanding stickiness. The wound sickeningly heaved in time with his heartbeat, forcing more and more of the viscous liquid out of his now burning abdomen. Tears blurred his vision, bile piling up at the back of his throat, pushing against his feeble gag reflex. He noticed that the figure was gone just as another pressure joined the first, on his upper arm, almost to his shoulder. This time, his body didn't grant him the mercy of temporary paralysis, and the agony began almost immediately. His stomach lurched, emptying its contents. The yelling was joined by another, softer voice, adding to Gary's confusion. Where...was...? His anemic thoughts were slippery and clever, unable to be caught or expanded on. They were only vague fragments of ideas rushing around his fuzzy brain at record speeds. He didn't even have time to feel the warmth cascading down his jaw from a hole in his temple before he collapsed. 
  
~~~

   "Finally," Rogelio sighed, rubbing his bruised neck. His boyfriend, clutching a double-barrelled shotgun, was unable to reply. Tears streaked his ghostly pale face. He'd banished demons before, but nothing like this. Regardless of the "truth", the man currently face-down on the carpet of his living room floor in a puddle of his own tar-black sick and blood looked awfully human. "Here, you watch him," Rogelio took the gun from his shaky hands, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek soothingly. "Think of all the people he's hurt, amor, it's over." He left, presumably to put it up, and John slumped down onto one of the kitchen chairs. He knew this was going to happen, he knew he was going to have to kill him, that he wouldn't stop at anything less, but now that it's actually happened... He felt nauseous...aggressively so.
   He closed his eyes, his throat burning from holding back tears. Rogelio's right. At least it's over now. But, it wasn't like him to be so reckless. After all, he had gone undetected for years, operating several locations and performing rituals from right underneath the city's nose. For him to just, barge in, no form of defenses or plans or anything, was suspicious. He has to have something else. He opened his eyes again hesitantly, and--
                
                 No, that couldn't be right.

   He rubbed his eyelids. Truly, this had to be some sort of sick joke...but it wasn't. The evidence was right in front of him. Or, what wasn't in front of him, to be more accurate. The spot where the body had sprawled was now empty, the only evidence of its existence being the stain of crimson and bile. A deep red trail followed from the disgusting display to lead to their bedroom door. For a second, John was frozen in fear, unable to move. This wasn't possible. This couldn't be happening. And why would he go to their bedroom, of all places? Then he realized. Rogelio.
   With a new sense of determination, he crept silently out of the chair, reaching for a knife from the knife block. He was mere inches away from it when he heard a creak from the other room. He froze, not moving a single muscle. He looked around the apartment. It seemed almost...contorted in some way, as if it's very reality was being pulled apart by a thread. The floor was swaying lightly back and forth, the walls breathing in and out like a living creature. After several agonizing minutes, he grabbed the weapon, and, with a silent prayer, opened the bedroom door.
   The sight before him was horrific, every corner sprayed with bright arterial blood, though there was no source in sight. The mattress was torn, pillows ripped and strewn throughout the room. This couldn't have been done in such little time without making noise. No sign of Rogelio, either. What was going on? He noticed the closet doors were slightly ajar, and, bracing himself, approached them. He could hear soft whimpers and cries from the darkness within as he further ventured. They were soon joined by a faint scratching as the whimpers became wails of pain and torment. A skinless arm emerged from the darkness, blade-like nails glistening. Panic rose up in John. He tried to will himself to run, or at least scream for help, but he was stuck, unable to move a single muscle as the grotesque extremity caressed him. Needless to say, it was very confusing for him. He was bracing himself to have the flesh ripped from his face, but instead he got an oddly comforting touch worshiping his facial features. As he allowed his eyes to flutter closed, the hand's index finger came to his forehead, pressing a fingernail into it. Tension grew on the top layer of his skin, and as it began to draw blood, John heard someone calling his name. It was very insignificant and far away from the place where he was currently trapped, demonic hand carving sigils onto his face. However, the voice only grew louder. It was...vaguely familiar to him, so he clung to the noise desperately.

"....john...john..."

"...John...!"

"...John!"

   He awoke with a startle, heart thumping against his ribs. "Hey...hey, it's ok, you're ok," Rogelio had an arm around him, pulling him to his chest as he read a hardcover book. John stopped writhing, but was still visibly on edge. He came back to reality slowly. They weren't in Connecticut anymore. They were in their house that they had bought shortly after that night, in Arizona. Gary really had gone missing like in his dream, but the police couldn't find him anywhere, and, after a months-long manhunt, was declared legally dead. John and Rogelio knew better, though. They knew they couldn't stay, and nothing was really holding them in Connecticut besides painful memories. After leaving they were much happier, but nothing would be entirely the same ever again.