The House of Builders and Machines
An Experimental Piece
As stay at home mothers caressed their infants on porch swings, in a quiet neighborhood of Washington D.C., the capital city of the United States, a forsaken house lay on the end of a street.
It was an Old Victorian of the 1920's decade. White horizontal paneling matched with wooden accents of beautiful aged windowsills molded the house into an old woman's face. The type of old woman that hands out caramel candies because she has nothing better to do than to sit on her porch and feed the occasional finch with stale old bread crumbs from yesterday morning. This house, innocent, and old like the old woman who feed the birds that used to occupy it, was now fading into history as a house of despicable evil and violence that lay to the destruction of humanity and the birth of this quiet utopian town that produced stay at home mothers who caressed their infants on porch swings.
It began with a phone call received by Mr. Leroy Jethro Gibbs who was sitting on his couch in his living room, which was a part of his quaint house in Washington D.C.
"Hello?"
Silence. A ruffling, as if the other end were being thrown into a pile of freshly fallen leaves. It was August. The leaves were still on the trees.
"Hello?" He asked again.
Breathing. Slow and rhythmic as if the owner of the breaths were matching a heartbeat.
"Mr. Gibbs," the voice answered, "my name is Christopher Luther Lyons, it is to my understanding that you are a Special Agent of NCIS?"
"Yes," Leroy answered. "What business do you have, who gave you this number?"
"Mr. Gibbs, I am here to report myself."
"I don't do police work sir," he said, "You're going to have to take this up to the local authorities."
"Yes, normally I would but you see I can't." Mr. Lyons said. "The reason behind is because I've killed someone, but very specifically, I have killed several of your friends, and to get even more specific than that, while they were asleep."
"Who?" Gibbs asked.
"Anthony DiNozzo, Timothy McGee, Leon Vance, Doctor Mallard, and Jimmy Palmer." Lyons answered.
Mr. Gibbs removed the phone from his ear, shook his head, sighed a bit, keeping his composure. He put the phone up to his ear again. "Where are you?"
Silence, followed by more rhythmic breathing.
"Mr. Gibbs," Christopher said. "I suggest you calm down."
"Calm down? I'm already calm thanks."
Christopher laughed to himself, "No you're not. Secretly, you want to strangle me to death, so I say again, Mr. Gibbs, I suggest you calm down."
"Alright," Gibbs said taking a few fake but convincing deep breaths, "I'm calm. Now, what do you want?"
Silence.
"Are you still there?" Gibbs asked.
"Yes." Christopher replied. "You can ask the question Mr. Gibbs."
"What question?"
"The question that has been plaguing your mind ever since I told you of my reasoning for calling you. So go ahead, say it."
Gibbs nodded, "Where are you?"
"You have more questions Mr. Gibbs, do not hesitate, I will answer."
"You haven't even answered my first one yet, how can I expected you to answer anything?" Gibbs asked.
"Because you already know the answer to that question Mr. Gibbs," Christopher replied, "now ask another one."
"Why did you do it?"
Lyons laughed, "Why does anyone do anything these days?"
"Listen to me," Gibbs said, "I'm going to find you and then I'm going to-"
"What, going to send an army after me?" Christopher replied, "I honestly think that you're riding on a cliché, a bluff." He laughed to himself again, "Boss."
"Only my employees call me that," Gibbs replied, getting a bit nervous, thinking to himself on how this person, this crazy, possessed murderer, would know that he is the head of his unit. "who the hell are you?"
"The question is Mr. Gibbs," Lyons asked, "who do you think I am?"
The phone disconnected.
Footsteps from the hallway. Like a wolf hunting through the winter air charging toward an innocent deer, the killer himself, Mr. Christopher Luther Lyons, entered the living
His face was disfigured and inhuman. Snow white brittle, cracked skin, as if like clay. His lips were painted white and when closed, large, brutal and haunting scars, as if created by Cerberus, was the word Silentium, or Silence. Other than basic outlining of the nose, the face was completely featureless. Eye sockets, nostrils, and ears were not present. Mr. Lyons was literally a beast from hell unleashed onto the earth.
Christopher wore a black shirt, a leather jacket with a hood (that was over his head at the moment), black fingerless gloves, black combat pants and matching boots suggested that he was a military prodigy. He carried a Beretta M9, it was loaded with one bullet.
Gibbs looked behind him and followed Christopher with his eyes. Lyons stopped in front of him.
"How did you get here?" Gibbs asked.
Christopher said nothing, he just aimed the weapon at Leroy's head.
Gibbs stood up. "How did you-"
Christopher fired.
The bullet shattering the skull, entering the frontal cerebral cortex and lodging in the middle of it, creating massive head bleeding and immediate shock of the organs. The heart pumped blood rapidly trying to save itself, cling to final moments, say goodbye to the body. Gibbs fell face first to the floor, a slight echo of the impact was heard.
Christopher then positioned Gibbs' hand up and the gun near it, making it look suicidal. Then he slowly walked out of the front door, shut it on his way out and walked back towards the old white house.
Hours later, the last of Gibbs' agents, Kate Todd, arrived at the scene along with a K-9 unit, and other government officials for crowd control. The house was dark.
A news van was parked outside. A woman in her thirties who was at this job for years and was now hoping for a raise stood at the microphone. She was covering the story. "Special Agent Leroy Gibbs of The United States Naval Criminal Investigative Service, better known as NCIS, supposedly committed suicide this afternoon. Officials however, suspect flow play and believe that the culprit is a man that calls himself The Builder who has been evading officials for the past twenty years. If you have any information regarding to this case please contact the Washington D.C. Police Department immediately."
Kate turned on a flashlight which she carried in her hand.
"Jesus Christ!"
She saw the body, but she also saw a trail of blood that ran across the floor and up the wall on the other side of the room. In blood there was a message: Silentium est vestri nex or Silence is your death.
Kate's phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Todd," the caller said, "my name is Christopher Luther Lyons..."
