The Brimstone Method

The Brimstone Method - Part 5

But you're reading this, right? And I wrote it. So I must have survived? Yup. I did. I unclenched myself once the noise had died down and took stock. From where the building had collapsed to where I was crouched was smoking craters and a mix of exploded and unexploded mines. The whole place was a scorched earth. I looked at the craters I had traversed to get where I was. I had no idea how many had been triggered, but it was a lot. A number were still untouched, mostly buried in the dust and earth and I thanked every god I could recall that none of them had delivered me up to confirm which one of them was real.

I looked behind me. There was about one hundred yards of untouched minefield left between me and freedom. It wasn't a lot, but my whole body was bleeding and torn. One of my eyes had swollen shut. It took me the best part of a large number of hours to make it out. Fucked if I was going to make a mistake at that point, so I took my time. As I cleared what I thought was the last one, my right hand brushed another right next to it and my heart stopped for a second before I regained my composure and went around. I still crawled slowly for another half a mile or so, just in case, but when I reached the road I knew I'd made it out.

I stood and turned around. The field was still smoking, the churned earth scarred, only the smaller building left standing. I could hear the surviving, now homeless, creatures howling into the darkening sky.

I swayed on my feet. I wasn't to know it then but I was, to use medical parlance, 'totally fucked.' I hadn't lost any limbs for sure, but shrapnel had torn my arms and legs to shreds. My left hip had a gash in it down to the bone, the back of my right leg and arse cheek had third degree burns and the fabric of my trousers had fused to it. My right earlobe had been cut in half and dangled down loosely.

I started to walk but must have passed out somewhere. I was picked up by a farmer who carried me in the scoop of his tractor to hospital.

So here's the thing. A year or so later, and I am well aware that getting revenge for my brother's death by killing the man who was getting his own revenge on me for getting his brother killed would be a futile gesture. A snake eating its tail, you might say. I knew the best thing to do would be to leave well alone, thank my lucky stars and go back to being a petty crook.

But that's not the way it works, is it? Not round here, not round anywhere.

Once I was on my feet again I did my famous blending in and befriending people act, going round and investigating all of Seamus' old mates and cronies to find found out exactly who had been killed in that warehouse, and who their fucking other brother was, the gun-runner who carried the umbrella. (I assumed he only carried it when it rained though). I won't tell you his name given this is a true story and I've avoided all names, except for me and Seamus, and I've changed those.

Ever since my escape from the minefield I suffered with a constant ringing in my ears. At first I thought the explosions had buggered my ear-drums, but at some point late one night, in the middle of one my now usual nightmares, with the sound of my brothers death-scream echoing around my head too, the ringing and the scream became something else, something more melodic, something hypnotic, almost like a song. I finally realised what it was and what I had to do.

Long story short - I know, about time - I hired a lorry, a big one. I drove back to the minefield. It was still fucked, still a ruined, frightening place where nobody in their right mind would go. Any grass that was wasn't blackened and dead was yellow and diseased. A deathly silence hung over it like a thick, stinking blanket.

I had a shotgun. It was a new Ithaca 37 I had bought from a gun seller a lot more fucking competent than me. I also had a smaller gun, a pistol of some sort. I parked a short way off from the minefield and took cover behind the tall, stumpy bonnet. I fired. And again and again. The explosions were huge, devastating. I couldn't believe I had run through something like that. It was kind of beautiful. I cleared a path through, and waited. Eventually the creatures found their way out, first one by one, then in pairs and threes and eventually the whole horde - hissing and spitting and swaying and generally being utterly fucking terrifying and surreal. I stood in front of them, in front of my van, the shotgun by my side, just in case.

They gathered in front of me like I was some kind of messiah and were waiting for instructions. Fine. I could play that role. I didn't know why or how, I just fucking knew, OK. I knew. As soon as I had stepped onto that field, the ringing in my ears had gone. So I pulled open the back of the truck and in they got, as compliant as anything.

Anyhow, I drove them to umbrella-carrying cunts pub. He owned it. I knew he'd be in there. Plus, I checked through the window first and there he was, looking like the lord of his manor. It looked warm, cosy and welcoming. They had Moretti on tap. And Brahma.

I backed the van up to the front door of the pub, hopped out and opened the van's rear doors. The creatures poured out.

Then the slaughter began and the pub's welcoming vibe was kind of lost in the arterial spray. I felt a bit bad that they tore apart and ate the ninety-year old regular who had been drinking watered-down Guinness in there for his entire life, but he should have chosen his local with more care, in my humble opinion.

Once it was over the creatures vanished. They finished devouring everyone and then they swayed and staggered away into the night, leaving bones, a few limbs, some clothing, a tooth here and there. I have no idea where they are now. I don't care. Roaming the countryside and occasionally eating someone I hope.

Anyway, I had a mental breakdown, was found (again) gibbering and laughing to myself in the middle of a dual carriageway, completely out of it, and so here I am in a mental asylum. They don't call it that though, its a Mental Health and Psychiatric Evaluation Unit. I'm not a criminal though, not any more. I can come and go as I please, although I like it here and choose to stay.

So this is my story and now I've written it all down like she wanted. It's true, every word, I swear, except that I never had sex with my psychiatrist as I implied earlier. She doesn't like a bit of rough at all, I just put that in there to fuck with her.