Obscure Blood

Chapter Seven

Octa left the hospital, drove home, pointed a gun at Officer Brinking and made him walk until they got to the basement. It was about ten in the evening. He turned on the light and descended the stairs.

"So what're you gonna do with me?" Officer Brinking asked.

"I'm going to kill you," he said.

"You're no better than me, Octa."

"Is that so? It seems that I have a lot of people coming after me."

"So what?" Brinking said, when Octa stood in front of him. Octa kicked him in the face.

The chair tipped over and fell on its back. Brinking's arms, tied behind the chair, were trapped. He managed to tilt from side to side, then he rolled onto his right side. Octa walked toward him.

"You won't get anything out of me."

"I don't need anything from you."

Octa took the handcuffs off and cut the rope.

"Help yourself out."

Officer Brinking stood up, and something went crack in his right ankle. Trying to remain calm, he ground his teeth. He couldn't walk on his right ankle without sharp pain. Seeing a knife on the floor, he grabbed it and headed in the direction of the stairs. Reaching the middle of the stairs, the lights went on and off, repeatedly, three or four times. He opened the door. It was dark in the kitchen. Feeling for a switch on the wall, he found none and took baby steps. He didn't want to trip and fall as getting back up was too difficult.

When he found the switch, he turned on the lights. This time he didn't have to worry about the light. Making a left, he saw the front door. He attempted to limp quickly toward it. Just as he reached out for the doorknob, Octa grabbed him by the neck and slammed his head against the wall.

Octa then pulled him in his direction with such force that Officer Brinking lost his balance and fell on his back. I should turn off and on the lights to play with his mind, Octa thought. I have to scare him so he can plead for death to come quick.

Officer Brinking rolled to his knees, his ankle screaming in pain, and looked for him. "I'll cut you open," he shouted and pressed his back against the wall. With his good leg, he pushed himself back up to standing. He lost sight of Octa when he moved to the kitchen.

"Where are you, coward?" he shouted as he stood in the kitchen facing the sink.

The light in the room went off.

Brinking screamed when the baseball bat slammed into his hand holding the knife. The knife clattered to the floor and suddenly Octa's hand gripped the back of his neck and shoved him forward. His belly hit countertop and he doubled over.

Octa grabbed his uninjured hand and shoved it down the open drain. His foot and hand throbbing in agony, Brinking didn't think fast enough to fight Octa and he screamed again when the garbage disposal roared to life in the darkness, the vibration pulsing through counter, tickling his gut.

He barely registered that bits of his fingers were ground away by the whirling blades and turned to bite Octa on the shoulder. Octa pushed his arm deeper into the drain. Brinking groaned and gave in. He doesn't know who he's dealing with, Octa thought. He's about to know my dark side.

Octa released Brinking and quickly left the room. Brinking pressed his bleeding hand to his chest. The light was suddenly on. He looked at his bat-broken hand, and the bleeding mess of the other and horror crept more solidly into his eyes as tears flowed down his sweating face... There was a towel and a bottle of whiskey on the table. Damn, what am I thinking? flashed through Brinking's mind. He poured the alcohol on his hand, and fell to the floor. He took the towel and wrapped it around the stub of his hand, which was missing its fingers. The bones hung, dangling small shreds of flesh. Octa shoved the broken hand down the disposal.

"You win," he cried out.

"Hmm," he heard someone sigh. It was Octa.

He walked out of the kitchen, turning all the lights on. As the maimed officer tried to step out, Octa came behind him and hit him in the head.