The Downfall Chapter 1, a good son fanfic

Chapter 1

A/N: This chapter will focus almost exclusively on the POV of Chris Marshall. It begins with Chapter 78 from TGS, as I noted in the description. Here, we'll see an example of how that chapter came so close to ending differently.

On Saturday, May 15, Chris spent the morning cleaning up around the house, the afternoon over at Nicole's- a very enjoyable afternoon, since they had the house to themselves- and the evening over here at the YMCA. Brian D'Aramitz, Andrew Cadiz, Carter Stevens, Michael Cadiz, Mason Sarkozy, Jason and Anthony and of course Henry and Mark had all arrived within a few minutes of each other, and Chris showed up right in the middle of that. They'd gotten right into the main weight room, moving around in groups of two or three and working out with the same enthusiasm as they always did. These guys lived for this stuff, and by now, so did Chris. He loved the excitement and exertion of a good workout, the way he would push himself, tire himself out, and wake up the next day feeling a little sore, but stronger.

Chris no longer struggled to keep up with the guys, not even Jason or Tony. He still couldn't lift or bench what those two could, but he was getting closer all the time. Damn close, in fact, and Jason and Anthony were the first to admit it. They were visibly proud of how they had helped transform Chris, and would even brag about him to the other guys like Chris was some up-and-coming champion and the other two boys were his heroic trainers. Chris was so proud of that, he walked around some days feeling like he was as tall as Henry and Mark. He fully participated in the seemingly-endless bull sessions on sex that Jason and Anthony held any time the three hung out, and by now had plenty of his own stories to share and opinions and ideas to provide. Chris was damn proud of that, too, and he, Anthony and Jason could never seem to stop talking about the fun they'd had in South Carolina during Spring Break.

Jason still didn't seem to quite believe Chris had scored so many times, with such good-looking girls, or that he'd hooked them all up that one day, just like that. Chris was realizing that he had more than earned Jason and Anthony's respect by now- he was proving himself their peer and equal. To have come that far in a year amazed Chris, and put him in awe of the gains he'd made in the weight room. He had come farther than he'd ever thought he would in a single school year, and he had never been more pleased with and proud of himself.

Of course, the redhead had no chance of matching the Evans brothers, but he had long since gotten over that. Nobody could match the Evans brothers in the weight room. But right now, working with a pair of heavy dumbbells alongside Jason and Tony, Chris could look around, just glance at himself, and feel pride and satisfaction at how well he fit in. He dressed like his friends, walked, talked and acted like them, and when he joined them for a workout, he lifted and benched, pushed and ran like them.

He had lost the lanky, average-kid look that he'd been sporting at the start of the school year. Gangly arms had grown thick and heavy with athlete's muscle, his pectoral muscles, shoulders, and abs had all grown vastly more pronounced. After months of just about killing himself to keep up with Tony and Jason, Chris could now do it without any extraordinary effort. He had become used to it. Standing beside his two best friends in a sleeveless t-shirt, Chris felt a surge of pride as he saw the muscles on his pale arms rippling and bulging, relaxing, then bulging again, looking incredibly similar to the other two boys near him.

A whole school year of dedication to fitness and athletics, together with gaining the friendship and assistance of some of the coolest and strongest guys at school, had done wonders for Chris. He could run faster, lift more weight, and do more physical work than ever before in his life. Chris had gone from being just some kid to a varsity athlete, and he looked the part perfectly. The improvements he'd made this year were staggering. He'd gone from average kid to varsity athlete, from new-kid nobody to member of his school's social elite, from virgin to a guy who got laid multiple times a night, multiple times a week, just like the rest of his athlete buddies. Chris had never had such self-esteem. He felt like he could go out and fuck any 8, 9 or 10 he set his eyes on or just go out and conquer the fucking world.

The affinity for weightlifting that he'd picked up the past year was not about to go anywhere, not after all this. For one thing, Chris had every intention of following through on the plan to join Tony and Jason at University of Alabama in the fall, and no way would they let him miss out on going to the gym. But more than that, Chris loved weightlifting, loved working hard to maintain and improve his physique. The pride and self-esteem this had brought him, the simple fun of working out, were all things Chris was practically addicted to at this point. He had every intention of working out frequently for a long time to come.

All around him, boys were huffing and grunting as they worked to push themselves to a strong finish. As usual, a lot of dares, bets and taunts were being made and exchanged. These were some competitive guys, behaving more like a pack of wolves than a bunch of teenage boys. Competition, testing their strength, was a way of life, and there was no better means of testing themselves than against each other. They tested each other verbally as well as physically; giving and taking insults, one-upping each other's tales and bragging of weight-lifting feats and sexual conquests, and just being ready, even eager, to take anybody on at anything was all part of the game.

Chris had become a lot more boastful and arrogant since he'd started running with this crowd; he was talking all the time about how strong he was, how promiscuous and sexually capable he was, and generally how nobody was better at anything than he was. It was damn exciting, being part of this crowd. Chris knew some kids, some people, looked at him and his friends and saw arrogant jerks. Chris didn't care. Everyone wanted what he had. Everyone wanted to be him and his friends: cool, confident, handsome and with the brightest futures you could ask for. Jealousy was behind anyone who disliked them, and nowhere was that more evident than with those underachievers on the soccer team.

Chris was really having fun tonight; he'd been working up a serious sweat and enjoying every moment of it. It continued to amaze him how strong he'd become, how tall he walked and how well he was accepted by everyone he'd hoped to make friends with at his school. From head to toe, Chris had never been in better shape. Lean but buff, square-shouldered and athletic even if he still wasn't a damn powerhouse like Henry and Mark were, Chris had a lot to be proud of and knew it. There was no doubt at all that if he kept this up, he'd be in exactly the same shape as Jason and Anthony.

The three teenagers had been talking about the upcoming first semester of college for weeks. There was so much to look forward to; Chris thought it honestly sounded like four years just like this one were lying ahead. Better, in fact, because the parties and drinking that they'd messed around with this year would be way more accessible and frequent than they were here. They'd be at a school with thousands of students, with several parties every Friday and/or Saturday night. Hundreds of hot girls, all plenty interested in three guys with the looks and charm that Anthony, Chris, and Jason had. It wasn't going to be just like this year- it would be much, much better. Chris was up for that.

Chris finished his last few reps on the dumbbells and gave an exaggerated sigh, his shoulders slumping. Acting like he was insanely exhausted, Chris staggered over to Jason, seemingly barely holding onto the dumbbells he was holding. Forty pounds each, and one was hovering precariously over Jason's right foot.

Jason stumbled back, almost dropping his own dumbbells in the process. "Don't you fucking dare, asshole!" the brown-haired teenager blurted.

The redhead straightened up and smirked. "Never thought I'd see you get scared, Jason."

The other boy scowled as others around him started laughing. "You think you're so fuckin' funny."

"Nah, that little baby carrot you call your dick- that's fuckin' funny," Chris said, and he and all the guys cracked up laughing.

Jason flushed and pointed at Chris. "You're dead, SD. You're fuckin' dead, kid."

But Chris just kept grinning, and eventually Jason started to chuckle, then laugh. He shook his head, setting his weights back on the rack. Chris returned his, and Tony returned his. The other guys were all about done too, so everyone started to head for the showers.

In the showers, Chris participated in the usual horsing around and homophobic jokes that all the guys seemed to love doing. He slapped Tony on the ass once, which he almost instantly regretted: the black-haired senior closed his eyes and moaned. "Just like that," he said, and Chris' face went as red as his hair while everyone else howled with laughter.

Jason finished showering ahead of Chris, and wandered casually by with his towel in hand, rather than around his waist. Chris was busy arguing hockey statistics with Mason Sarkozy, so he hadn't noticed Jason hold part of his towel under the spray before turning his shower off. Nor did Chris notice as Jason twisted that end of the towel into a "rat tail". But Chris did notice when Jason expertly whipped it at Chris' ass, twice in rapid succession. The pain was sharp and abrupt, and Chris, taken completely by surprise, jumped, clapped both hands on his buttocks, and gave a startled yelp that sounded very much like a high-pitched squeal.

Riotous laughter broke out, and Chris' handsome face turned as red as his hair. Jason was smirking at him, and Chris neatly made a rude gesture with one finger.

"They're always doing shit like this," Carter Stevens said.

"This is awesome," Michael Cadiz said. The eighth grade boy was laughing so hard he could barely stand up straight.

"Hey, next year it's gonna be you," Chris said, pointing at the younger ginger.

"Eat my balls, Chris," Mikey shot back. "At least then you'll shut your fuckin' trap."

Chris smiled for a second, then said to himself, "He's all right, that kid!"

"Kid?" Mikey objected, grabbing at himself. "You ever seen a dick this big?"

That set off a whole new round of arguments, with Mikey fiercely trying to assert himself as an equal member of the pack against the jeers and retorts of the older boys. He was at a disadvantage by default, but he had enough spirit that he won some respect anyway. Chris had high hopes for Andrew's younger brother. All the guys did.

Chris had fun for a few minutes as he got dressed, talking with the Cadiz brothers and arguing with both of them about which ginger was the strongest. Mikey gamely challenged Chris to an arm-wrestling contest, which Chris on. Andrew also lost, but like his brother, he was impressed and just said, "Not too bad. You might stand a chance next time. I'll see you around."

As great a time as he'd had working out today, Chris was tired. He sat with his elbows on his knees as the Cadiz boys departed, stopping to speak with Henry and Mark before they went. All at once, he didn't seem to have a lot of energy left.

"You good, SD?" Mason asked nearby.

"Yeah," Chris said, sighing. "Just tired, dude. I better head home. Nobody's gonna be there to wake me up in the morning and when I'm really tired, I can sleep right through an alarm clock."

After pulling a clean blue muscle shirt over his head, Anthony looked over curiously. "Why's nobody gonna be at your house tomorrow morning?"

"My dad's out on his ship and Mom's down in Philadelphia for a wedding."

Jason had just sat down beside Chris to pull his shoes on. He whacked the redhead on the shoulder, looking at him in exasperation and disbelief. "Dude! We could've thrown a party at your place this weekend!" he protested. "Why the fuck didn't you tell us?"

Chris just looked at Jason and said, "See, that's why I didn't tell you. This, right here. That's why, dude."

The muscular, brown-haired boy shoved Chris playfully. "And this is why nobody likes you."

The redhead shoved back. "Admit it. You love having me around."

"I'd rather give up sex than be best friends with a ginger," Jason retorted, pushing again.

"I guess you better tell Brittany the bad news, then, huh?" Chris asked, and he put a little more force into the shove this time. Jason, caught off guard in spite of the playful shoving, nearly fell off the bench.

"Whoah!" he exclaimed, steadying himself. "Damn! Don't kill me, dude."

"Better watch out," Anthony laughed; he'd been enjoying the show. "SD's gonna kick your ass soon, Jason. He's catching up to you."

Jason laughed. "No fuckin' ginger's ever gonna be stronger than me."

"We'll see," Chris said. "I'm full of surprises."

"You're full of shit. That's more like it."

The two boys shoved at each other some more, laughing like a couple of kids, until Tony came in and broke it up. Chris knew Jason actually liked him a lot; he had just set out giving Chris crap for being a redhead from when they first met, and now felt like he'd damage his macho rep if he stopped saying he didn't like Chris. But the way he treated Chris, and the fact that he spent so much time around him, said otherwise. He also insulted Tony fairly often, and yet greatly respected the other boy and had known him for years. It was just how Jason was; he thought getting even remotely sentimental was un-manly. So if he liked you- especially if he liked you- he'd insist on saying the opposite, especially when he was drunk and probably feared actually saying something nice the most.

Jason was a macho blowhard, an arrogant bastard, and at his worst just a plain old fucking asshole. At the same time, he was a great guy, an amazing athlete, and an amazing friend. His advice and support, along with Tony's, had done a lot to help Chris succeed this year. Chris continued to look up to both of them. He had set out to make friends during his senior year, and by far the best two he'd made were Jason Morgan and Anthony Summers. Going to college with them was going to be so much fun.

As Jason, Chris, Tony and most of the other boys headed out to the parking lot and went off to their cars, some of them noticed that the Evans brothers were already there. They waved as they drove out of the lot in Mark's red Jeep, and then they were gone.

It was a little strange; normally, they stayed at the center of the crowd, a crowd that revolved around them. They were never in any hurry to leave, as sticking around meant soaking up every last minute of adoration and attention from their friends. This time they'd been some of the first guys out the door.

Thinking about a warm, comfortable bed- and the use it would be getting tomorrow evening, when he was going to bring Nicole over for a romantic dinner and a stay overnight- Chris started his Camaro and began the drive home. He made sure to stay upright in the bucket seat, eyes on the road. He was tired, and did not want to let that get him into an accident or run off the road.

Chris cranked each of the windows down when he first got to a red light and afterwards enjoyed the sweet sound of the V8's exhaust, coming out through twin tailpipes. This might have been an automatic, but it was fast, and that engine sounded amazing. Chris still didn't get why Nicole had always been so up for fucking in this car. It was cramped as shit in here. The blowjobs and road head worked just fine, though. Plenty of room for that.

It had occurred to Chris more than once that sex was probably the basis of his and Nicole's relationship. On just about every date- nearly every one they'd ever been on- Chris and Nicole wound up getting physical, usually in his car or one of their bedrooms. They didn't really talk that much about serious stuff. They mostly just had fun. Chris had enjoyed it all immensely, but he still wondered sometimes if he wasn't just a cock and some sexy muscles to her.

Tony would have had some funny comments to make about these musings, were he able to hear them. Jason would have slapped Chris on the back of his head and told him to just shut up, keep her happy, and enjoy the sex. To Jason that was the whole point of it all, and Anthony was if anything worse at getting serious in a relationship. He was the senior class playboy. He wasn't after commitment; he was just out to have fun. Tony could charm and romance like nobody else, but the goal at all times was getting laid. It wasn't like Chris had no understanding of Tony's or Jason's attitudes. They were his role models on this stuff. He had done as much as possible this year to cultivate an image just like theirs, had even sought detailed advice- embarrassing as it had been at first- on how to perform better, things to try and techniques to use. So while Chris secretly wished for a relationship with more than just great sex to it, he wasn't about to complain. He was eighteen years old, and had plenty of time left to look for a more serious relationship. Right now, it was all about having fun.

Any further thought on this was interrupted as an SUV approached from behind, quickly moved left to pass, and overtook Chris' Camaro. The redheaded teenager immediately recognized the vehicle; it was Mark's red Grand Cherokee. Not a lot of people owned one quite as new-looking as Mark's, and besides, he recognized the CHS sticker and the Maine license plate.

After getting in front of Chris, Mark's Jeep slowed down. It got close enough that Chris could actually see Henry in the back seat. Almost instantly the blond locked eyes with Chris, and he began making a "follow me" motion with one hand.

Chris squinted in confusion. "What the hell?" he muttered to himself, wondering what this was about.

Henry continued making the gesture for a few moments, then turned away, probably saying something to Mark up front.

Oh, man, Chris thought wearily, these two want me to follow 'em somewhere.

The redhead was not excited about doing that. He was tired, and did not particularly want to go anywhere but home. Chris thought about doing just that. Bed sounded really goddamned good after such a long and active day.

But this was Henry and Mark. The Evans brothers were inviting him to follow them somewhere. It was literally a summons from two kings.

Chris thought it was strange that they hadn't just called him; they both had his number. But he could ask them about that later. Right now, he had to choose whether to do what they clearly wanted- follow them to wherever it was they intended to go- or not. Chris knew he was free to refuse. He could go home right now. But if he did, Henry and Mark were not going to take it well, and then he'd have to face them at school on Monday. If either of them was in a bad mood, Chris' imagination was the only limit to what the consequences could be.

After coming so spectacularly far this year, after impressing so many people, enjoying himself so much, Chris did not want to even think of risking his status by pissing off Henry and Mark. No way was he gonna screw this up with only a few weeks left. And besides, the Evans brothers didn't do things without a damn good reason. Part of Chris really wanted to know what it was.

So when the two vehicles reached an intersection and the Grand Cherokee turned right, Chris followed. The drive lasted about ten minutes, taking them into the gentle, semi-forested hills that overlooked the rest of town, and ended when Mark's Jeep came to a stop in front of a towering set of black wrought-iron gates. A high brick wall, partly covered with ivy, stood with some impressive-looking trees on either side. And behind all that, through the gates, Chris could see an enormous house. A massive, intimidating, old-fashioned looking thing. Even in the dark it looked scary.

Actually, it looked scary especially in the dark.

The gates opened, swinging inward, and Chris hit the gas a little as the Grand Cherokee headed inside. He drove in behind them towards a huge stone water fountain, coming to a stop after going about halfway around. The Jeep's lights went out and the front doors opened, and Henry and Mark got out. Sitting low to the ground in the Camaro's bucket seat, Chris was amazed in a whole new way at just how tall the brothers were. They towered over everyone else normally; here, they looked like virtual giants.

Chris shifted into park and shut off the Camaro. As he opened the long driver's door and got out, he looked up at the imposing mansion. It was old; the house and the overgrown, neglected grounds had a look about them that Chris knew couldn't have been used in houses for a long time. Nobody made them like this anymore.

The redheaded teenager shivered involuntarily; it was warm outside, but looking up at those house, glancing into a dozen-plus blackened windows, Chris suddenly felt strange and cold. He had two abrupt thoughts, neither of which he had any evidence for, but which instinct told him he believed. The first was that he didn't like this old, obviously deserted house.

The second was that it was watching him.

Now that he thought about it, Chris remembered driving by on this road a couple times, and even during the day the mansion had given him the creeps. Once he and Nicole had pulled off on the empty drive in front of this place to fuck, and Chris had needed to drive them somewhere else once he realized he couldn't get it up. As soon as they were away, he'd performed just fine. Chris had never really put it all together before, but all he could think of now was that he had never liked this place, and had stayed as far from it as he could. What were Henry and Mark doing leading him out here?

Knowing Henry and Mark despised weakness and showing fear, Chris resolved to cover his now. He put on a good-natured smile as he approached Henry and Mark, saying, "I told you I had to get my sleep, guys, so why're you leading me to the Haunted Mansion instead?"

The joke seemed to get somewhere; Henry and Mark both smiled, laughing a little. That was good; Chris didn't want these two to think he was scared.

"This won't take long," Henry assured him.

"Chris, I think it's a good time for us to say something."

"Sorry, I'm a ladies' man," Chris quipped.

It was a risk, saying that; these two were easy to piss off. But the six-foot-six brothers just laughed again.

"Funny," Mark said, grinning. "Henry, haven't I told you how much I admire the fuckin' balls this guy has?"

"Oh, yeah," Henry replied, nodding. "But then you're not saying anything I haven't said myself."

"You've come a long way this year," Mark said, looking at Chris. "A long fuckin' way."

"Look at 'im," Henry said, gesturing. "Those arms, shoulders- he's got a fucking six pack these days. Even how he stands."

"You were some random kid when you showed up," Mark said, "but you challenged us to a boxing match the day we met you at the Y. You've had the nerve to try shit a lot of kids never do."

"The only way you were gonna impress us and all our friends is by having balls, taking risks," Henry went on. "That's exactly what you did. Everything you did this year, as far as you've come, it was all because of your own hard work and determination."

"Look at who you are now," Mark said. "You're a hundred fuckin' times more impressive than you were when you met us. You used to be a skinny virgin with some balls. Now you're a badass jock. You did that all by yourself, because you wanted it and you were ready to fucking work for it."

"Point is, we respect you," Henry said. "You've impressed the fuck out of us. Every cool thing you've done, every improvement you made in yourself- we know about it, and we admire you because of it. That's why we finally decided we'd let you in on our secret."

Chris had stood in stunned awe throughout the little speech he'd just heard. Never had he expected to be praised to the sky like that by Henry and Mark Evans, the strongest, coolest, most fearless and amazing guys he'd ever met. They were living legends, rightly looked at as the best at everything, the guys every teenage boy wanted to be. Chris had felt honored from the day they'd let him into their circle. From the beginning, becoming one of their friends had been his goal, knowing it was key to the popularity he wanted at Chamberlain High.

Now, at the end of a successful year, Henry and Mark themselves had told Chris he'd succeeded at everything he'd set out to do and in the process won their admiration. Chris could hardly wait to start living the benefits that would come from this- even if it was the last few weeks before graduation. Maybe he'd get to ask for one of their rare and sought-after favors. Who knew? This was an honor and enough of one to make Chris temporarily forget this creepy house he was in front of.

But pleased as he was, Chris was also curious. He didn't know what the last part of what Henry had said was about.

"What do you mean? What secret?"

"The secret of our success!" Mark exclaimed, as if it should have been obvious. "Come on, Chris. You've seen our parents at games, right?"

"Yeah," Chris said, nodding.

"Do you really think two people that are about as average as you fucking get could produce a pair of Goliaths like us?" Henry asked, looking amused at the very idea. "Come on. We did it another way."

Chris laughed. "What, like, steroids or something?"

Henry and Mark laughed and shook their heads. "No, we used something much better than that," Mark said, "and something which can't be detected!"

"And it's in there," Henry said, pointing at the front doors of the mansion. "You ever wonder why we can bench seven hundred pounds? Why we're each six-six and got bigger dicks than anybody? The reason's inside."

The redhead then realized he was probably being set up for a prank. Big talk about some secret, they get him in the spooky old house, then say, "Hey, we actually just got this lucky!" and everybody has a big laugh. That's all it was. They were smart, tough, and had become passionate weightlifters early on in their adolescent lives. From there, they were just lucky. No big secret there. This was a setup for a big joke.

Or was it?

Chris knew they were probably bullshitting him, but Henry and Mark both seemed pretty serious. They were known for a lot of things- short tempers, huge egos, huge muscles, and unparalleled athletic and sexual prowess. But they weren't known for being liars. If they said something they very often meant it.

But more than that, Chris began to feel the idea that these two were serious about this taking hold. If there was some secret in this house, something that had allowed them to become the extraordinary guys they were, and they had become impressed enough with Chris to bring him in on it… Henry and Mark occupied an Olympian status that guys around them could only dream of reaching. If they were seriously about to bring him in on something big, Chris was being invited to ascend to those heights himself.

The brief fantasy that gave Chris of having a fucking huge cock and being able to bench seven hundred pounds, able to fuck for hours and be the envy of every other guy around, was enough to win him over. If there was even a chance they were serious, Chris had to see what they were talking about. What it could mean for him if they were was just impossible to say no to.

Chris started to think of a reply to say, but he didn't need to; Henry and Mark could see he was tempted and smiled knowingly.

"Come on, then," Mark said, and he and Henry turned and headed for the front doors of the mansion. Chris followed them, hoping fervently that he really was about to become like them. No way would this be worth it otherwise.

The bad feeling Chris had when he first got out of his car only intensified when he walked in. He didn't have any specific reason for it, but it was unmistakably there, all the same. It was just an old house with a cavernous entrance hall, with floor space you could park a couple cars in and a ceiling that looked higher than Chris' own house. Doorways leading to other rooms, or leading into no-doubt-lengthy hallways were visible left, right, and directly ahead, both past the huge, elegant-looking staircase on this floor and at the point it stopped on the second floor.

Chris did not like this house. Something was wrong here. Houses were supposed to be just things of brick and wood and cement. This place didn't feel like that. It looked like a grand old mansion, past its glory days, but appearances were definitely deceiving here, it seemed like. The sense that Chris had outside- that the house was watching him- only grew as he came to a stop in the center of the entrance hall.

God, this place gives me the creeps, Chris thought uneasily, fingering the silver cross pendant on his neck. That cross had brought him a lot of luck and had accompanied him through some fond memories. Chris had exploited it to seem deep and sincere, to add to his growing playboy image an air of civility and earnest caring. He'd worn it while having sex more times than he could count; Nicole liked it when he wore it, saying it made him look sensitive and romantic. The girls Chris had screwed over Spring Break had liked the cross too. Chris only hoped it would help him out against whatever Haunted House willies he was getting now.

But Chris was startled by something else he noticed as he looked around. On the outside, the house had the appearance of a decaying, neglected mansion. Once-magnificent gardens lay overgrown with untended bushes and weeds. No one had been taking care of anything on the outside of the mansion in years- decades, probably. But in here- Chris couldn't believe it. He took another look around and realized the place did not look half as neglected as it should have inside. The interior, from what the redhead could see here, was incredibly clean. It looked like a full-time staff of maids worked here.

Even in the dim lighting from a skylight, casting the moon's pale glow over everything, Chris could see no leaks had sprung in the roof to ruin the floor over the years. Everything was intact; there were no cobwebs anywhere, no dust. Henry went off to the side somewhere and moments later, the enormous, elaborate chandelier hanging over the hall and the lamps lining the walls came on.

Chris whirled around, unable to believe it. This place was clearly a deserted and very old mansion. No way should the lights have come on like that. And the lamps were gas- who had used that as standard in a house this expensive since the early 1900's? How was it possible gas would have been available to power these lamps on, illuminating a clean, well-cared-for entrance hall, after who knew how many years of no use?

"How'd you do that?" Chris asked, looking up at Henry as the blond giant approached.

"You mean, how'd I turn the lights on?" Henry asked in response, looking down at him with amusement. Mark laughed.

"They- they shouldn't be able to turn on," Chris insisted. "This place is abandoned. Nobody lives here, right? How can the lights be on?"

"We wanted them on, so they are," Henry said simply, like that explained everything.

Chris stared around again, catching for the first time the full magnificence of the hall he was in. Ornate, elegantly-carved hardwood paneled the walls, and where it didn't, there was expensive-looking, classy wallpaper. Paintings that looked as costly as they had to have been- very old paintings- hung on the walls, tastefully placed and organized. An aging but striking woman was featured in one painting that hung in the entrance hall, the biggest of any of them. She had iron-grey hair and was clearly past her youth, but the years looked only to have toughened her.

This house was a throwback to a different time. This century was nearly over, but when this place was built, it must have been just beginning. Whoever had lived here had known wealth beyond conception, had wielded power and influence in equally great measures. Now they were long gone. And yet here this house stood, looking remarkably well on the outside despite the neglect, and almost untouched on the inside.

His imagination took off running, going from imagining what this place must have been like decades ago to what it was used for now. Maybe in this enormous, elegant house, far from intruding eyes, Henry and Mark had been making some drug for years that made them as superhuman as they clearly were. Incredible physical benefits, no side effects (unless you counted a titanic ego), and no way of detecting it… and they'd brewed it here. And no one had ever known. It made sense; who would ever come here besides Henry and Mark?

And although Chris hadn't shared that class with Mark, he'd heard more than once what a whiz the auburn-haired titan was at chemistry. That head-turning blonde teacher, Miss Michaels… she'd been his teacher. Chris had lost himself in fantasies about her enough times, he couldn't understand how Mark was able to concentrate in that class at all. But he'd been able to and then some. Science offered some incredible things to the people smart enough to make sense of it. A brilliant chemist might be able to find some previously-unknown things out about certain chemical combinations and the effects they could have on the human body. Was it really possible that Mark had come across- maybe even stumbled upon- something that gave him such astonishing height, such incredible muscle mass, and lightning-fast reflexes?

Was it possible that this really was no prank and that these two living legends were about to share that with Chris?

The very idea of that gave Chris such a thrill that he found himself suppressing his own fear, putting aside the creepy feeling the house still gave him. And when the brothers started heading up the staircase, Chris willingly followed them further into the house.

"So how big is this place?" Chris asked as they walked.

"Huge," Mark answered him. "You have no idea, man. It's got forty or fifty rooms, at least. Maybe more on some days."

"Some days?" Chris wondered, confused. He was following Henry and Mark down a hall that seemed to go on forever in either direction; even with the lights on Chris wasn't sure he could see the end. Doors- perhaps to rooms, maybe to kitchens or even a frigging Jacuzzi for all Chris knew- lined both sides of the hall. Paintings and lamps hung along the hall, strategically placed like everything else seemed to have been. An ornate, thick-carpeted rug appeared to run as long as the hall did.

"Yeah," Henry said, and he didn't elaborate.

"What's in this room?" Chris asked, pointing at yet another closed door.

"One of the bedrooms," Mark answered.

"So do you guys, like- uh, do you make drugs here or something?"

Henry and Mark both laughed. "You still think we're on some kinda steroids?"

Chris shrugged. "I don't know. You haven't told me what it is you are on."

"Save your questions for when we get where we're going," Henry said. "Just wait. What you'll see is gonna be amazing. It'll explain everything."

The redhead walked a minute or two behind Henry and Mark in silence, and then asked, "So, you ever fucked any girls here?" This place had to have some awesome bedrooms. Really good for impressing a date.

"No," Henry replied. "We don't need to use this place for that. What we do here is a lot more important."

"More important than sex?" Chris asked, unable to believe it.

"Well, you probably know our cocks are fuckin' huge, right?" Mark asked.

Chris blushed as red as his hair, but nodded when Mark and Henry glanced at him. He'd heard. "Yeah," he said.

"We're bigger, better, and can last longer than anybody else. Every girl either of us has ever been with has raved about us. What we're gonna show you gave us all that."

"We still would've been awesome anyway," Henry went on, "but this helped us a lot. Made it way easier to get laid, I can tell you."

"So what is it?" Chris asked. He really wanted to know.

"We'll tell you everything once we get there," Mark said. "All will be answered then."

"Including where babies come from?" Chris asked, unable to help himself.

Henry and Mark laughed again. "I think you figured that out this year," Henry said with a smile. "Took you a while but you figured it out."

Chris tried to get a few more questions in, but Henry and Mark just brushed them off, repeating that they'd tell him soon. So the redhead settled into walking along behind Henry and Mark, thinking about this house and wondering what the hell about it had given Henry and Mark all this amazing shit. He had no idea what it was. Each guess seemed as unlikely as another. But Chris knew he'd be finding out soon.

After climbing up some stairs for several flights, Henry and Mark led Chris down yet another hallway. They stopped just after turning a corner, and Mark opened a door. Chris didn't see him flip any switch, but the lights came on, and suddenly an enormous, circular room topped by an enormous dome came into view. A chandelier blazed with light, hanging over the center of the room, and at first Chris was terrified to set foot into it. It looked like the door opened onto a sheer drop, with an identical dome below.

It took a few moments for him to realize it was a mirror. The entire goddamn floor was a mirror. Glass lined the walls, the ceiling. Bookcases, dozens, circled the entire room, and they were made of crystal-clear glass, thick and sturdy.

"What is this, the-the frickin mirror library?" Chris asked, amazed at what he was seeing. This looked big enough to fit his whole house in.

"The Glass Library," Henry corrected him. "Come on in."

Henry and Mark led Chris out into the room; the footsteps of the three boys echoed around the silent, glass-filled room. When they reached the center of the room, directly under the chandelier, Henry and Mark halted and turned to face Chris.

"This is it, Chris," Mark said.

Chris looked around, not understanding. This was a huge goddamn room, sure. He'd never seen anything like it. But what was special about it? It was a fancy library.

"This is the heart of the house," Henry explained. "This is where its power is strongest, and where it's distributed some of that power to us over the years."

What a letdown. Chris had been really expecting something and gotten nothing at all. He shrugged, feeling overwhelmed by disappointment. This nothing but a bad joke. "So that's it?" Chris asked. "You're the best athletes in Maine because of a haunted house?"

Chris knew it was dangerous to speak disrespectfully to Henry and Mark, but he could not disguise his sarcasm, his disappointment. What a waste of time this had been. He'd let himself get all excited, get his imagination going, only to be let down after all.

Henry and Mark grinned at Chris again, but the grins were no longer friendly. They were downright predatory.

"No, Chris," Henry said calmly, "not just because of the house. We feed it, and it rewards us."

"Oh, yeah?" Chris asked scornfully. "Like what? Bricks and two-by-fours? Maybe some plaster?"

Chris was prepared to go on with that, but he stopped abruptly when he heard what Henry said next.

"People, Chris. People we've murdered here over the years."

"W-what?" Chris asked, startled. Now moving from let-down to uneasy, Chris held up his hands, smiling nervously. "Okay, uh, you got me guys. But this isn't funny."

"Who's joking?" Henry asked rhetorically. "You don't get something for nothing in this world, Chris. You want to receive, you need to give first. You need to plant before you can sow."

Henry paused, and the house was dead silent. There was no central air running. Chris could almost hear his own heart pounding in his chest, and all of a sudden Chris was very sorry he had let himself get talked into walking into this mansion. He began to realize he had very probably made a serious mistake.

"Henry," Mark asked calmly, "how many people have we planted here?"

"Forty-four," Henry answered. "Not one of 'em were ever reported as a murder, though, 'cause nobody knows they're dead."

Chris suddenly felt very cold.

"You can make it one more," Mark said, looking earnestly at Chris. "And nobody'll ever know you were murdered, either. Don't worry. We'll take care of everything."

This had all gone horribly wrong. Chris was getting seriously freaked out now. He'd had enough and then some. He took a couple involuntary steps backward, staring wide-eyed at Henry and Mark. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve such a mind-fucking, terrifying prank, but he didn't like it one bit.

"I-I really gotta go home now," Chris blurted, and he turned to leave.

Two people stood in front of him. One was close to Chris' height, about five-nine or five-ten, with short, dark hair. Beside him was a young woman with long light-brown hair and green eyes.

At a glance they were ordinary people, but Chris abruptly realized he could stare right through them towards the door. They were both bruised, bloody, and appeared to be in pain. A great deal of pain. They didn't say anything and they didn't move. They just stared at Chris, with the most agonized, haunted look he'd ever seen in anyone's eyes in his life.

Making himself tear his eyes away from that horrific sight, Chris whirled back to Henry and Mark. "How'd you do that?" he burst out, breathing hard. He had nearly pissed himself over that, and he was now quite scared, but laughter greeted his question, cruel and taunting.

"We didn't do anything," Henry answered. "We didn't need to."

"The house captures the souls of everyone who dies here," Mark said. "It feeds off them. And Chris, when you die here, you won't get to go anywhere. You'll stay here, and maybe you'll appear to the next person we kill here. What you just saw? That's gonna be you… forever."

"It isn't like anyone's gonna miss you," Henry assured him. "You're nothing to anybody. Name a person and I could prove they don't give a shit about you. We'll be doing the world a favor when we kill you."

Chris just stood there and stared at them. His mind couldn't comprehend what his ears were hearing.

"Run for it, Chris," Mark said, his tone cold and dismissive. "At least make it a challenge for us."

He had been told what was happening. Chris knew he had to run. He knew now that there was a dark, dark interior to the lives of these two teenagers, that their phenomenal success had a horrible secret behind it. They really had been aided all these years by a living, breathing, soul-eating house, and now they meant to feed Chris to it. His mind believed it, yet his feet would not. Chris just stood there, unable to make himself take this seriously enough to actually run for it.

This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't be real. This didn't happen in real life.

Chris stood there frozen, eyes flicking between Henry and Mark, until Henry unleashed a lighting jab to his nose, full force. The pain nearly whited out Chris' vision, and his head snapped back as he crashed to the floor. His nose was almost broken by the impact, and blood began to flow freely.

"Run, Chris." Henry stared down at him, his smile long gone, those crisp blue eyes hard and pitiless. "Run or we'll kill you right here."

That did it. Chris believed it now. He believed it all. The redheaded teenager bolted to his feet and spun around to run for the door, doing it so fast he tripped and fell on his own feet. He jumped up again and sprinted for the door, not even looking back. His terrified mind somehow still noted something as he ran: the blood dripping from his nose was not spattering on the floor and resting there, like it should have.

Every time a drop hit, it disappeared instantly. Same as if this was a carpet. The glass was absorbing the blood, sucking it in somehow the second it hit.

Chris had closed the door to this room behind him when he'd come in here. Now he wrenched it open and tore off down the hall he'd come down, running like he'd never run before. Chris didn't know if Henry or Mark were behind him. He didn't know if they'd come after him yet. He didn't dare look to see.

He knew that if he did- if he stopped or slowed down even a second now- he was going to die here. None of his friends would know what had happened to him. Henry and Mark would lie, and say they didn't know, that they were as mystified about their friend's disappearance as anyone else.

The redhead remembered a conversation from back when school started up after Spring Break. Scott Shepherd had warned him against making friends with these two at the start of the year, and after Spring Break, he'd said "I think you already have," when Chris had mockingly asked if Scott was trying to save him from dooming himself. "You don't know who your friends are," Scott had said. Those were the last words he'd ever said to Chris.

Why hadn't he listened? Why hadn't he even considered it?

It was all there, suddenly. Chris remembered every time Henry or Mark had kicked or pushed a kid. Every time they'd laughed at another student, picked on them and made them feel small. He'd stood there and laughed while they mocked that poor kid, and then Henry had crushed the boy's phone in front of him. Chris had let all his friends imitate that behavior, and even done a little himself under pressure from Andrew and Jason and some of the others.

The cruelty. The absolute absence of pity or remorse. The eagerness to punish anyone who crossed them. John LaFleur had been beaten savagely for coming to a football game high. A boy who'd dodged them in the hopes of not being bullied for a week had been cruelly punished when he was finally caught.

Chris realized that even Scott Shepherd had not been close to being right about Henry and Mark, but the soccer captain at least had some idea. At least he knew they were cruel and monstrous, and that Chris would have been better off staying away from them.

The redhead wished he'd listened. He wished with all his might that he'd just listened to the other boy. Had he only done that, he would have never been in this position in the first place. He never would've even allowed himself to be suckered into coming here.

Running straight down the hall to the door to those stairs should have been easy. Instead, Chris jerked open the door at the right place and found a wall. A solid wall. He backed away, not understanding. He was alone in the hallway. Abruptly, Chris realized the light from the open door of the mirror library place was gone. Even at the other end of a long hallway it should have still been visible. Chris looked to his right and saw nothing. There was a solid wall the way he had come.

What the hell was going on here?

Chris spun around, desperately searching for a way out of here. He saw a door he hadn't tried and jerked it open; he ran into the room, lit only by the light from the moon coming in the windows. Once he got inside, Chris looked around and staggered as he realized he was looking at the ceiling of a room where the floor should have been, and that an entire office- a very old-looking office- was bolted to the tiled floor above him.

Had the house suddenly turned upside down, too?

The redhead was briefly transfixed by the bizarre sight of it. Lights even "hung" from the upside-down ceiling Chris stood on, looking exactly as they should have were gravity pulling them down.

What? Who the fuck had designed a room like this? Was the architect- or the rich person paying the architect- out of their fucking mind?

Chris spun around, suddenly aware he was not alone in the room.

Henry was right there behind him.

The moment Chris turned around, the huge blond punched him in the face. Chris stumbled back, tasting blood. He raised his fists to defend himself, but Henry just lashed out and nearly broke his nose a second time. Chris cried out, unable to bear the pain. The blood running from his nose had just begun to slow down, but it was doing the opposite now.

"We said run," Henry said, socking Chris in the stomach. Air rushed out of the red-haired teen, and he hunched over, straining to breathe. Henry chopped him to the floor with another blow. "We said make it a challenge. You're such a fucking loser you can't even run like a bitch. No fucking wonder you didn't get laid until senior year."

Henry moved around, took careful aim. Chris didn't think to cover himself until it was too late. Henry's shoe shot forward and blinding, roiling pain shot through Chris as Henry kicked him in the balls. It was horrible. Agony in his nose, his mouth, his stomach, his privates- Chris could barely think. He could barely move. But he managed to suck in a breath and hoarsely say, "Fuck. You."

"Fuck me? Fuck me?" Henry said, his voice rising as his face clouded with anger. "What, you think you're some brave motherfucker, saying that to me? You ain't shit, Chris." He reached down and wrapped a steel hand around the teen's neck, lifting him up in the air.

"I own you, Chris," Henry shouted. "You lived this long because Mark and I let you. Your stupid little life is ours to take."

Chris gagged and gasped, trying in vain to pull the hand away from his throat. He kicked and flailed but it did no good. God, this hurt.

Henry suddenly reached in with his other hand, pulling Chris' t-shirt out a little to look at his pendant. He laughed coldly. "You still wearing that stupid cross, Chris? What, you think God's gonna save you? There is no God, Chris, and He won't be claiming that pitiful little soul of yours either."

The blond grabbed for the pendant, probably meaning to rip it off, but then something very strange happened. Henry's hand gripped the silver cross for only a second or so. Then he yelled in surprise and anger, and not only let go of the pendant but let go of Chris, dropping the battered teenager to the floor.

Collapsing in a heap, Chris gasped and strained for breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Henry gripping his left hand, staring at it in disbelief. He seemed to be in pain, enough, even, that he'd forgotten about Chris for the moment. The redhead was hurting so bad he could barely stand, yet he found the strength to not only do it, but to stagger forward into a run, grab the door at the other end of the room, and continue to try to get away.

As he ran, the silver necklace and pendant stayed safe around his neck. The cross that he'd known such good fortune with, a gift from the playboy mentor he admired so much, Anthony Summers, had done- something. Chris didn't really understand it. Henry had reached like the little piece of metal had been physically painful for him to touch. Chris reached into his shirt as he ran and touched it; it was warm, heated by Chris' chest, but nothing else.

Chris thought for a moment that maybe Henry was wrong, and that wearing that cross had somehow forced Henry to let him go, at least this one time. Chris was no more of a proper Christian than Anthony was. He'd attended Mass a number of times this year alongside the Italian-American charmer. But if he got out of this, if he lived, Chris resolved to give some serious thought to going to church more often. No, no, scratch that. If he made it out Chris would pray to fucking God every fucking day. Anything at all, anything. If being a good Catholic boy helped his soul go to heaven, wonderful. Right now, Chris didn't care where it went as long as it didn't stay here.

The escape from Henry did not buy Chris the chance to make the quick escape he had hoped for. Denied the chance to immediately retrace his steps, Chris had been forced from the start to take another route. Running through halls, stumbling into rooms, Chris pushed himself harder and harder to run and never stop. He had to get away. He had to live. He wanted to see Mom and Dad again, he wanted to fuck Nicole one more time, and tell her how special she was to him for being so understanding of the little kid he'd been at the start of this year. He wanted to tell Jason and Tony the awful truth about their two leaders and friends.

He did not want to die here.

Chris never let himself stop, never let himself take a break. The need to run, to get out of here and stay alive, overpowered everything else. As Chris ran he saw some things he'd never imagined he would, things he never even thought were real.

He flung open one door and saw a decayed corpse, a guy dressed in outdoorsy-type gear, staring at him, and screamed in terror as his bladder let go. The urine staining his underwear and shorts would have humiliated him any other time, but here, Chris barely even noticed. He just turned from the dead man looking at him and ran for it. He ran from what he knew he'd become if he stayed.

More than once, Chris staggered or faltered as he ran. He was tired, and his body, tough and strong as it was, had taken a lot of abuse. He was struggling to stay on his feet, but somehow managed to. Somehow. As badly as his body cried out for mercy, his mind kept it going, reminding him that if he stopped and gave up now, he would die here.

The layout of the house was like a maze. It seemed to have an unlimited number of halls, corridors, and rooms of every type. The suffocating fear he felt was gripping him, making him feel feverish and panicked. Chris could no longer even try to shake the feeling that the house was somehow watching him, that it hated him, and that it did not want him to get out. Was he even making progress- or was he just heading deeper into this nightmarish place?

Tearing through another set of rooms, Chris saw a pair of battered-looking young women, both wearing t-shirts and running shorts, standing in one doorway. His heart jumped into his throat but Chris did not stop, not even as he saw their heads turn, felt them looking at him. Watching him.

Chris did not want to be like them. He didn't want to become number forty-five.

He was now absolutely convinced all those deaths Henry and Mark claimed had really happened. They had lured people here, taken them here, and then killed them, their bodies disappeared forever into the house, their souls trapped and unable to leave.

Forty-four people.

Chris had never met any of them. He did not know who they were, or how precisely they died. But they must have done exactly what he was doing, trying to escape.

Not a single one of them had made it.

Eventually, Chris stopped in a deserted hallway, yet another that seemed to go on forever. This one was moonlit- the house had gone dark a long time ago now- by several tall windows lining it on one side. Chris came to a stop, breathing hard. He must have looked like death. Sweat darkened his red t-shirt and made every inch of his skin slick. Blood was still caked on his face, and the stink of urine wafted up from Chris' groin.

It didn't matter. He was lucky to even be alive. If he made it out of here he could clean himself up all he wanted. It wouldn't matter if he looked like hell, so long as he escaped. Chris had never felt so intensely alive; knowing he might not be alive much longer was doing wonders for his awareness of… everything. Chris could see, hear, smell and think more vividly than he ever did before. His body was in full survival mode. Everything was focused on staying alive. Ideas and possibilities, tactics and methods to try, raced through his mind. He'd been running like hell for a while now, but that, all by itself, was probably not going to be enough. He needed to try something different, just like he'd had to months ago, in order to get Henry and Mark's attention in the first place.

Chris briefly thought of trying to fight, but that was out almost as soon as he thought of it. He was exhausted and scared, and could bench two-fifty on a good day. Henry and Mark would be energized and strong, and could bench seven hundred any old time they pleased. He couldn't take them, especially not in this house from Hell.

The redheaded eighteen-year-old dug into his pocket, suddenly hoping he could get out his phone and call for help. His phone was gone. Chris knew he hadn't left it in his car. It must have fallen out of his pocket at some point- maybe when Henry had punched Chris and knocked him down. It was probably vanished now, swallowed up by the house.

Would it have done any good anyway? Would the phone have even worked in here? Chris' watch sure didn't. It had been dead this whole time, despite the battery having been completely fine earlier today. The device had just quit working, taking away any sense Chris had of how long he'd been in here. Had it been half an hour, one hour? Two? He had no idea.

The house probably didn't want him to have any sense of that.

It didn't want him to have anything at all. Chris had never really thought all that much about whether he believed in souls, God, and all that stuff. He'd just used the cross he wore to impress girls. Now he'd seen ghosts. He was witnessing the supernatural, experiencing it every second he was in this house. Henry and Mark had told him his soul would be trapped here if he died in the house.

It seemed like they knew what they were talking about.

Chris heard a sound from off to his right; he jerked as if struck by a pin, spinning around to face it. There was nothing. Nobody was there. Just a darkened hallway, lit only by the pale light of the moon. But all the same, the sense remained that he was being watched. Chris couldn't see anyone, but in this place, that didn't mean he was alone.

Then Chris got another idea, and he frantically dug in his back pocket for his lighter. His hand closed around it, and Chris closed his eyes in relief. Finally, a break. The rush of relief seemed to push things back, make the corners sharp once more. It was a crazy drunk's thought, but Chris had started to get a sense of the corners of the house, of every room, "melting" somehow. Closing in, shifting, changing. As Chris found the lighter, the world before him snapped back into focus.

He didn't have any time to waste. Chris flicked the wheel until it lit, then crouched and put the flame to the base of the window curtains near him. The small flame spread onto the drapes and began to grow, and Chris quickly held the lighter to the curtains at the next window. They caught too, and as the flames slowly and steadily began to grow, Chris heard a low, eerie moaning run through the house, as if the wood, stone and brick was itself knowing pain.

Chris sincerely hoped the fucking place burned to the ground. And if it could feel pain, even better. Chris wanted the goddamned house to suffer. If this dump was him, it was gonna have to fucking earn it.

Encouraged, Chris looked around for something else to burn, something to get the fire going. He spotted an end table standing off to the right. It was an elegantly-carved, lacquered piece, clearly old. Chris pocketed his lighter, snatched the end table up by the legs. He raised it high and brought it down as hard as he could, and he could have cheered when part of the top broke off. The redheaded boy jumped up and down on it, snapping the legs off, and shoved it all in a pile against the curtains beneath the first window, making sure the burning fabric had a chance to make contact with the wood. It did after a few moments, and the fire began to catch and spread onto this new source of fuel.

Suddenly Chris noticed motion at the edge of his vision, and he sprang up and got ready to run as Mark Evans charged in. But he didn't come for Chris. Looking almost panicked, he pulled off his shirt, exposing that powerful, chiseled-from-stone physique Chris had always been so jealous of, and started frantically beating at the flames.

"Henry!" Mark screamed. "Henry, get over here!"

Chris noticed something just then. For once, there was none of that smug, arrogant self-confidence that the Evans brothers seemed to exude. That supreme air of superiority, of "I'm just better than you," was gone. In its place was genuine fear and desperation. As much danger as he was in, Chris felt immense pleasure as he saw that Mark was clearly afraid; it was good to see that colossal asshole finding out what fear was like for himself.

Knowing he was on borrowed time and literally playing with fire, Chris ran down the hall to another end table, this one featuring a kerosene lamp, one of the old ones Grandma still owned. Just like how the lamps and chandeliers on the walls and ceilings worked, this lamp still had plenty of fuel in it, and Chris could feel and hear it swishing around as he snatched the porcelain and glass object up and shook it.

Mark looked up at him then, and immediately guessed what Chris was about to do.

"Noooo!" Mark screamed, "Don't!"

Chris threw down the lamp, aiming right at the rug running the length of the hallway. The lamp shattered, spilling fuel and soaking it into the rug. Chris hurriedly got out his lighter, flicked it on, and held the flame to the wet section of carpet. As he did so, Chris flipped Mark the bird with his free hand.

Mark roared with fury, picking up a heavy statuette, a small ebony head, from where it had fallen when Chris had smashed the end table. In his hurry, Chris had tipped the statuette and dumped it off the table without even noticing, without even seeing it in the first place. Mark grabbed it and hurled it with bullet-like force, and Chris felt a flash of searing pain as the statuette hit the center of his right arm.

The impact knocked him down, and Chris thought he felt or heard something snap. His first thought was that his arm was broken. Strange, though- he couldn't seem to feel any pain. Wasn't it supposed to hurt? Maybe. It sure didn't seem to. That sure was odd.

His lighter had flown from his hand as Chris had been thrown down by the force of the impact. It landed, still aflame, across the hall a few feet away. The rug, burning steadily where the kerosene had soaked it, was now beginning to burn at Chris' feet.

The lighter. He had to get it! He'd succeeded here; what if he got away again and started some more fires, ran from room to room, making it impossible for them to catch up to him and put out the fires? He'd make them choose between one and the other. Chris forced himself up, choking back a cry of pain at the agony that lanced up his arm as he tried to use it to help him get to his feet.

Chris turned away from Mark and had just started for the lighter when Henry barreled into him from the opposite direction, looking downright feral. The collision made Chris' vision go almost white with pain, and when Henry grabbed him, he was sure he was dead.

Just then, Mark shouted, "Henry, help me! He's setting Fleetwood Hall on FIRE!"

Swearing violently, Henry threw Chris aside, causing white hot agony as his right arm was roughly jostled again. The towering blond, appearing a literal titan from where Chris lay on the floor, rushed over towards Mark and began stomping furiously at the flames eating up the rug.

It would not be long before they turned their attention to him. Chris had no intention of sticking around for that. He struggled to his feet and got the hell out of there.

For several more minutes Chris ran through the house, finally finding some stairs and enough doors that actually opened. There was no way the fire had occupied Henry and Mark this long; they were after him now, and he had to hurry. There was no time to waste. Chris did what he could, though, knocking things over as he ran, sometimes hearing gratifying shattering sounds as something broke on the floor. It was hard, trying to do that, and run like hell, while his broken right arm dangled uselessly at his side. Every so often, it would smack against something, sending a flash of agony up Chris' arm. He wished he could have continued working to torch the place. This house deserved that. But if he could get away, he could come back with a whole group of his friends after Henry and Mark were in jail. Then, not even going inside the house, they could burn it the fuck down.

But he had to get away first.

Eventually, Chris was racing down one hall, thankful that he'd gotten this far, when suddenly the wall on his right ended, and he saw it- the entrance hall! Chris could see the front door!

Chris turned and practically flew down the enormous number of steps, nearly tripping several times in the process. He was exhausted already, but the moment he reached the floor Chris went even faster. He damn near killed himself in his headlong sprint to the door. He grabbed for the handle-

Locked.

"NO!" Chris shouted aloud, desperate and terrified, his visions of escape suddenly threatening to turn to ash. He couldn't be stopped, not when he was so close!

Chris looked down at the door. It was an elaborate, heavy, multi-paneled work, and Chris abruptly got an idea about that. It was probably the last chance he had of getting out of here alive. He sat down in front of the door, aimed, and began kicking with all his strength at the lower left panel. As he worked, Chris thanked himself, blessing all the workouts he'd done with Anthony and Jason, workouts which had always included leg-strengthening exercises. It was all paying off now. Chris worked quickly, kicking as hard as he could, aware all the while that time was running out. He kicked and kicked, and finally the panel broke loose. It didn't offer a lot of space, but it was enough. The sweaty, exhausted, terrified adolescent threw himself forward, ignoring the pain, and wriggled out through the hole he'd made.

When he collapsed to his feet outside, Chris looked up, and the first thing he saw was his car. His 1985 Chevrolet Camaro, waiting for him all this time.

It was the most beautiful thing Chris Marshal had ever seen in his life.

Struggling to his feet yet again, Chris ran towards it, stumbling as he crossed around behind it. He had to use his left hand to get his keys out of his right pocket; his right arm, abused so many times after Mark had thrown that heavy statuette at it, did not seem to be working right anymore.

Chris unlocked his car, flung the door open, and collapsed into the driver's bucket seat. After not even a second, he slammed the door shut behind him, reaching around the wheel to ram the keys home in the ignition. Valuable seconds were lost as he struggled with the awkwardness of inserting the keys at an odd angle and with his left hand, but he did it.

By now Chris' thoughts were racing furiously, focused on what he was going to do next. He knew exactly what he planned to do. He would go to the police department, not stopping for anything. He'd go as fast as this fucking car could, which Chris was pretty damn sure was higher than the top listed speed of 85 miles per hour. The speed limit could go fuck itself. And if some cop caught him and tried to pull him over for speeding, all the better, because Chris was going straight to the police anyway, as fast as he possibly could.

Mark ripped a long, deadly-looking piece of wood from the damaged door and turned the handle. Fleetwood Hall was his home, and so the door that refused to let Chris Marshal out opened easily for Mark. The little shit Mark was after had made it to his car; Mark could see the kid struggling to shift the automatic transmission from the center console. His broken arm, the result of work Mark had done, was making it difficult. Mark, hellbent on making life a great deal more difficult for Chris than it already was, didn't watch where he was going and tripped as he came down the brick front steps of the mansion. He stumbled, fell, caught himself by planting his hands on the cool bricks.

Ahead of him, the Camaro's engine roared as Chris stomped on the gas pedal. It was either in neutral or still in park, because the car went nowhere. Mark, using every ounce of strength he had, forced himself back on his feet and sprinted toward the Camaro. He held the makeshift shiv in front of him, and using it and his fist together, he slammed right into the Camaro's passenger window and destroyed it. The window exploded inward, showering the interior with bits of broken glass.

Chris's head turned, but only momentarily, and he had a grim expression of incredible focus as he threw his head forward, honking the Camaro's horn and avoiding Mark's wooden dagger. The Camaro's engine roared again, and this time, the Camaro sped backwards. Mark realized what was happening fast enough that he let his knees go out and hung on. He fought to get inside, to reach in and stab the stupid kid behind the wheel to death and finish the job, as the Camaro sped out from behind the Beast. The car braked to a stop suddenly, and Mark immediately heaved himself up, gripping the door with one hand and aiming the makeshift shiv at Chris with the other.

The redhead had to stop and shift the car to drive with his left hand, and Mark would have laughed at the other boy's weakness, the fact that he was crippled by his broken right arm, if he hadn't been angrier than he'd ever been in his life. Chris moved faster than Mark would have believed, though, and immediately stomped on the gas pedal again, launching the Camaro forward. The car picked up speed as its engine began to scream, and it was obvious Chris intended to ram the wrought iron gates.

Mark was dead-set on killing Chris first, but he couldn't. It was a struggle to even hang on. Chris didn't even look at Mark, just kept staring at the gate. Bloody and bruised as he was, he was fighting for survival with everything he had. Mark's every instinct screamed for him to kill the kid, to cut his throat open and make sure no one ever learned his fate.

Instead, Mark's knees began to bleed from dragging on the ground and he finally slipped and fell to the dirt, getting a face-full of dust in the Camaro's wake. There was a tremendous crash as the Camaro slammed headlong into the front gates, and Mark hoped feverishly that the car would fail to break through. The gates would be too strong. The car would be going too slow, or it would be destroyed by the impact and become immobile, or it would get stuck halfway through.

What happened was different from any of those things. The Camaro punched through the gates with a screech of metal as it pulled and strained them, then flung them apart. The gates tore into the front of the car and ripped off the mirrors on either door, leaving a mix of broken glass, plastic, chips of paint and the two mirrors sitting at the bent, misshapen gates.

Mark staggered to his feet, forcing himself to attempt a run after the car, but as he got to the damaged gates even he saw it was useless. Mark watched in horror and disbelief as the taillights of Chris Marshal's car, two wide strips of red, grew quickly smaller as the car sped into the night. Then, as Chris rounded a corner and began to go further downhill into Portland, they disappeared entirely.

"Mark! MARK!" Henry shouted, running out towards him. Mark turned, but before he could say anything, Henry saw the debris, the damage to the gates, and his brother's startlingly battered appearance. "Come on!" Henry yelled, turning and running for the Hummer.

The two teen titans bolted for the enormous truck, flung its front doors open, and jumped inside. Henry jammed the keys in the ignition and the huge turbodiesel engine kicked over immediately. Henry shifted into drive and hit the gas, and the truck shot forward. But even as he began racing out the gate, the blond let off the gas and said, "Wait a minute."

"What? Did you fucking say "Wait"?" Mark shouted. "He's getting away, Henry, GO!"

"Mark, he's gone. He got too much of a head start on us."

"He's gonna go to the police station! Just fucking go there and we'll kill him!"

"In front of the cops, Mark?"

"We'll just kill 'em, too! Fuck it, I hate 'em anyway!"

"Mark, we can't do that. We have a reputation."

Mark wanted to keep shouting, to argue. But he stared out of the twin rectangular panels of the Hummer's windshield and saw nothing but the road ahead, no Camaro and no Chris Marshal, he knew it was hopeless. They had fucked up and Chris, the first one ever, had gotten away. Mark drew in a breath and sighed. "Okay. What do we do now?"

Henry drove slower now, thinking. "We go home. Act like nothing happened. You and I put everything we're wearing in the laundry. And we just play it straight from there. He's not gonna have any proof of this, and if he tries telling anybody about the house and what it is, even better, 'cause everybody will think he's crazy then."

Mark took out his lighter, opened it and closed it. "This is bad. I should have killed him."

"Yeah," Henry said. "But look, don't worry. We can handle this. We'll be fine."

A/N: 3-4-2018

And so begins my alternate ending to "The Good Sons". This single divergence, in which Chris Marshal gets away, is going to change everything for Henry and Mark, and many of the people around them. They've been lucky for a long time, but that may well start to change with Chris' escape.

AM83220 helped inspire me to write this, as he helped inspire me to write all of the works in the universe of "The Good Son" following "The Second Face". He is a good friend and by far one of the best and most talented writers on this site. If you like my work, make sure to take a look at his. You won't be disappointed.

There will be at least one more chapter for this story, maybe two. It depends on how long it takes to detail subsequent events. Can't say for sure when the next chapter will be, but I will complete this story by the end of 2018, no question.

Reviews are welcome, as always.