I don’t think the mark liked being disobeyed.

I felt fine, mostly. Aside from the nasty scars all over my body, I had recovered amazingly; I was extremely lucky to have killed a marked man right before he killed me. But something didn’t feel right in my body. The blisters continued to pulsate, and the buzzing under my skin got worse and worse. I was constantly vibrating, writhing under my skin like maggots.

I should just do it. Press one of the blisters down. I need to be as strong as possible for whatever comes next.

No.

Yes! Am I going to let everyone else die because I’m too afraid of power?

Shut the fuck up.

I’ll just end up pressing it down by accident anyway, when I’m laying down or when I’m bashing someone’s head in. Might as well just do it now and choose which ability I get for myself.

“Good point,” I said aloud to myself, and put a sludge shell over the blisters on my chest, giving them a nice, safe cushion from outside influence. Creating the shell felt awkward, like someone was pushing against it, but they couldn’t stop me.

Just fucking press them down! You’re being an idiot!

I ignored my internal monologue. I couldn’t trust it anymore. I haven’t been able to trust it for a long time, really. With each blister-press, I was less Augustus McCall and more Gus the Marked Man. But I could still tell, somewhere deep down, which thoughts were mine and which were put there by the mark, impersonating me.

But could I really? Always? And even if I could, how much longer would that last? At what point would I lose Augustus McCall entirely? It was hard to say, and I didn’t want to take my chances. I’d be god damned if I came all this way just to become subservient to a fucking tattoo.

The tattoo disagreed.

It constantly protested under my skin, constantly filled my head with doubt — or at least I suspected it was the one filling my head with doubt.

“Anyone hungry?” Marv’s voice came from the kitchen. “I’m making chicken wings.”

“Marv, it’s five o’ clock in the morning,” Bruce said on his way out of the bathroom.

“I just survived a battle in a supernatural holy war — I’m not eating oatmeal.”

He had a point, I thought. I actually really fucking wanted some chicken wings, but I needed to see what the damage was outside. There was the sound of chicken bubbling in oil, and a glorious smell started to waft through the house, and I reluctantly stepped out the front door into a street that was painted red.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

If someone had told me that this is what Hell looked like, I wouldn’t have been surprised. It wasn’t just your everyday, run-of-the mill smattering of corpses on the street. The entire road was red to the point that I couldn’t see any asphalt. Intestines hung from roofs like Christmas garlands. Shards of bone stuck into the dirt. Somehow, the most intact body out there was the headless thorned man I left on the front lawn of Bruce and Marv’s house.

“You’re welcome.”

Mickey leaned against a blood-soaked tree, admiring his handiwork, smug as a fucking bug.

“You did all of this?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said. “Once you took out the big baddie, your guys actually put up a damned good fight. Probably only half of these grunts were still on their feet when I rolled up. And only one of the baldies looked real injured by the end. Gerald got him lookin’ alright, though I think he’s still knocked out.”

“Wow, didn’t think he had it in him, to be honest,” I said.

“Why? He saved your ass too.”

“Killing a marked man saved my ass, and everyone else’s.”

“Probably helped, sure, but it took a couple of minutes. You would’ve been a puddle on the sidewalk if Gerald didn’t pull you into the house and stop the venom from spreading. Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on him. I think he likes you.” Mickey grinned.

“Haven’t you ever heard of tough love, Mickey?” I asked.

“Sure I have.”

“Well that’s not what I’m giving to Gerald. Can’t fuckin’ stand the sight of that guy. Glad he’s not completely useless though.”

“He’s more than that. I’m tellin’ you now, Gus: he might be the most important guy you got by the end of this. Might not want him hatin’ you.”

“If I’m being honest, I really couldn’t give a shit, but thanks for the words of wisdom. Now, what’s your next move? They were expecting us here — well, they were expecting you. Now they know I’m here, too. We’ll probably be met with a lot more firepower next time we meet them.”

The smell of chicken wings wafted into the street, competing with the scent of blood — and winning. Mickey smelled it too and walked past me into the house without answering my question. I followed; I was fucking starving.

“Hope y’all got enough for me!” Mickey said as he burst through the door. Bruce and Marv looked absolutely fucking delighted to see him.

“Sure do,” said Marv. “Must be hungry after kicking all that ass.”

Mickey chuckled. “You ain’t ever told a lie. Poppin’ motherfuckers is hungry work. And I popped a lot of motherfuckers.”

We all took plates and found seats — some in the kitchen, some in the living room, some at the dining room table. Mickey and I both ate like rabid hyenas.

“Mickey, what are you thinking for our next move?” I repeated with a mouthful of meat. The whole house was staring at us, the two generals, with bated breath.

“Well, I don’t think you’re gonna like my plans. You never do,” Mickey said.

“I didn’t say I was gonna follow your orders. I just wanted to know where your mind was at,” I said.

“Alright, but don’t just dismiss it immediately like you did last time,” he said.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you were so sensitive. I’ll be nice, even if it’s dumber than shit, which it probably will be,” I said.

“Better than what you got, evidently, which is nothin’,” he said. “Personally, I was thinkin’ we go pay one of their churches a visit. We only take the big guns: you, me, Gerald, and Caleb.”

“What? Caleb?” I said.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Mickey smiled.