In "Black Red Blood White," the gripping conclusion to the riveting saga that began with "Tacit Resonances," author Viktor A. King delves deeper into the enigmatic world of Anna, the tortured soul turned spectral avenger, and Henry, the malevolent m...
Another gag hit the man lying on the couch, a stifled growl came out of his mouth.
"I'm going, I think you're going to faint."
Hancock turned towards the exit, to return to the lounge or kitchen where he would find immediate energy.
He quickly climbed the stairs.
"Anna, we need to know where Henry is, to guide you to the other side."
"I know"
"I mean, do you see that?"
"Yes I think I can see without being there, I just know it."
"So where is he?"
"On a hospital bed, with a false bandage that is already staining with blood."
"Here?"
"Yes yes here, downstairs where they amputated them. They didn't move."
"I am afraid"
"Stop it, it's time to see what we can do before they call for reinforcements."
"I have to go Ursula, you take Kate towards the driveway, if they call others, she won't make it."
"Where are you going Anna! No, don't leave me, I'm REALLY scared!"
Ursula looked at the empty space partially occupied by Anna, then saw the silhouette of the willows sharper and more defined, and the fronds mockingly reminding her of matter.
"ANNNNAAAA"
Kate stopped. She heard noises, sounds, like out-of-tune music in the trees.
She was limping, but already glimpsed the entrance to the house, from where she would walk down the dirt path to the small town and head for the first available bus.
He quickened his pace by helping himself with his arms, swinging his gait.
She would never go back to that place, she would never tell anyone what had happened, if God or whoever absent-mindedly allowed her to survive and reach her mommy, albeit an infamous bitch, her mommy, better than severed heads, sadistic and schizophrenic children and voices in the trees and the risk of ending up in slices hanging in a cold storage cell.
Anna saw the man coming up the stairs, he was large with a bizarrely small head, shaved but with the bulbs of the black hair that once stood there still visible.
He was wearing a white local police shirt, stained with dark red spots.
His trousers were uniform blue and at his waist he wore a belt that should have contained a firearm or a knife or handcuffs and a teaser but contained nothing.
He had never seen it.
An absurd smile was plastered on his white, hairless face, slightly plump in the pendulous cheeks. A mouth with thin lips, small teeth yellowed by coffee or tobacco.
He had reached the lobby, walked heavily, banging his supplied boots on the marble from heel to toe, tonf tonf tonf. Echoed by the clinking of the empty belt.
Anna lifted a piece of furniture from the room and threw it at him.
Hancock gasped, saw a white object coming out of the corner of his eye, then it was the white glow in his eyes. A stabbing pain erupted in his temple. He brought his hands to his head, holding it dazed and slowed as only astonishment leaves you.
Anna lifted the tools from the fireplace, let them levitate in front of it, then applied powerful energy to the poker.
In business, she had been taught to strike quickly and mercilessly.
He placed the poker in a horizontal position directed at Hancock's fat body and shot it as fast as an arrow.
It struck him in the side, penetrating the flesh easily, tearing the fabric. Hancock screamed like a pig before the slaughterhouse.
Anna mentally pushed the tip into the flesh.
He imagined it as an auger drilling into the ground in search of oil and with its diamond tip drilling through the layers of soil irreparably.
Hancock grabbed the spike with his hands, it was difficult to grip, it had hit him on the right hind hip, from the kidney.
When the kidneys are injured, they gush out a dark, viscous blood like blueberry juice.
Trying to twist and stop the digging with sweaty hands still sheathed in surgeon's gloves, Anna lifted the scoop to collect the ashes from the chimney, a long iron tool with a square collector at the end, raised it to Hancock's head height, took a running start and hit it like the ball going into the hole. The dull thud that his clumsy, oval-shaped head produced was dull and final.
He unbalanced his body, cartwheeling towards an armchair, relinquishing his grip on the poker, scrambling to lean before crashing to the floor.
An armchair helped him, he was bleeding from his ear and eye, a dark bruise was opening wide in the gelatinous compactness of his temple.
He was understanding. He raised his head slightly, trying to see something. He knew.
Anna moved the sideboard in front of her, moved it so that it plunged imposingly and whole into the heaviness of the finely chiselled ebony wood on her body.
Hancock turned his head, emitted a feminine shriek and ended up under the wood, under the books that spilled copiously like a torrent cascading over him, he ended up on the ground, buried.
The poker thrust into the fall with greater vigour, penetrated the kidney, Anna could see it, and the spleen, and grazed the spine. Hancock wasn't dead, but he certainly wasn't very well.
He left it there in its liquid.
It was the next one's turn.
But first he had to reassure Ursula.
And he needed Kate.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
