Chapter 1: Attack
19-year-old Russell Jenkins trudged up on his family's apartment building's second-floor stairs, holding a white plastic bag filled with fan mail and gifts in each hand. Russell wore a teal blue and white striped shirt, teal blue denim jeans, and red Converse. When Russell reached the peak, the bags got stuck behind him like a stone in a soda bottle. Russell sighed, inverting himself, pulling one bag behind him, dropping it to the ground as if it were hot, and doing the same to the other bag. Russell slightly crouched down, hands on his knees, sighing to himself.
The mailbags were for Javier Garcia–The Prince of Baltimore. Russell rolled his eyes at the thought of Garcia himself as the idea of hero worshiping was very asinine to him.
Russell recollected the bags and brought them to apartment 78, where His Highness Javi resided. Russell went to knock on Javier's door when the Prince of Baltimore himself flung the door wide open before Russell.
Javier's brown hair was neatly combed and swept to the left-hand side of his face. Javier wore a pure white baseball jersey with the New York Yankees symbol on its left shoulder; Javier's denim jeans were dark blue and ripped; his black Converse shoes appeared well worn and finished his appearance. Javier's smile could light up Baltimore after dark, but it only made Russell feel sicker inside.
"Russell, it's so good to see you!" 24-year-old Javier Garcia greeted mirthfully.
Russell wanted to vomit as he handed Javier the bags of fanmail, "Good morning, Garcia. Here's your fan-mail."
"Ay, Dios mio," Javier gasped, pulling out some of the mail from one of the bags with the same amount of mirthfulness as before. He called out to someone in the apartment with him, "David, look! People love me!"
Russell grimaced, his eyes going to the left, lids fluttering in sheer annoyance. It's just a bunch of fucking mail from other people…
"Russell, I can't thank you enough for bringing all this up here." Javier thanked, gratefully holding his hand out for Russell to shake.
Russell, however, rolled his eyes again, as he retreated from Javier, refusing to be near His Baltimore Highness' ass.
"HEY." Another man–sounding angry unlike Javier's mirthful tone–boomed from the apartment behind Russell.
Russell paused momentarily as he popped his eyes out in surprise, feeling a King-Kong-like entity thunder behind him, making his shoelaces go up and down like frogs. A thick, callous, meaty hand clamped on Russell's shoulder with a death grip, making Russell invert himself to see his assailant.
The man was six-three inches tall, had a face that saw many battles and wars, and would be threatening if he didn't have a yellow and pink flower Hawaiian shirt on right now. 36-year-old David Garcia snarled, "When someone gives you their hand, you shake it, even if you don't want to."
Russell's blood began to boil, "You don't know jackshit about me. I had to leave college due to racist professors and someone jabbing metal nail files onto other people's bodies; my youngest sister has panic attacks every other day while I'm still trying to find good resources to help her; my gram learned that she had skin cancer two days ago; two nights ago, your brother brought home a pair of twins and one of them left with their dress on backward and upside down while the other held onto a lace thong in her hand."
Javier's jaw dropped, his sins revealed as he stood frozen like a statue. David swiftly turned to Javier, livid like the Happy Mask Salesman, Mount Vesuvius erupting in each of his eyes.
Meanwhile, a strange-looking man loomed ominously in the background by the stairs, staring at Russell like a major predator. The man grabbed Russell's neck, his black nails digging into Russell's skin, pulling him back like a dog on a retractable leash. Russell cried out, holding out one arm as if he was falling off a boat.
David and Javier gasped, "Russell!"
The Garcia brothers would have followed Russell, but another man, ash-gray skinned like the first man, dropped through a black and red hole that manifested on the ceiling and snarled at the Garcia brothers. This new man was visibly muscular and hairy as he wore a faded, holed, orange and white wrestling suit.
Javier shrieked, toes tapping the red carpet rapidly, scared out of his jeans.
"Javi get back inside!" David demanded his brother, before holding his fists, ready to fight the new entity that just entered the building.
The man who grabbed Russell stomped down the stairs, dragging Russell behind like a holed-up kite.
"Let go, ya' grunt!" Russell demanded, thrashing his fists like a spoiled child. However, the man paid zero heed, skipping the last two stairs and landing on his feet at the bottom of them.
The man had dark, frazzled deadlocks, ash-gray skin, and eyes about as red as human blood. The man wore a black, oversized, torn sheepskin jacket with dark gray lining. A golden medallion loomed on his sternum as his gray shirt was stained and had suspicious red spots on its chest and stomach; his dark gray jeans were torn and stained; his black boots had a hole on each toe.
Russell grabbed the man's wrist, turned, and dropped his body, bringing them both to the ground like bags of trash. Russell quickly balanced himself on one knee, immediately turning the man's arm inward, attempting to break his arm and forcing him to release Russell. The man cried out, sounding like a beast from a book, "G'Yaaaaah!"
The man released Russell's neck as Russell ran, pressing his back against the cream-white wall of the apartment lobby. Russell's eyes darted around the room, looking for a good weapon to defend himself. He remembered the pocket knife in his belt, pulling it out and aiming it at the man like the Master Sword. The man reemerged with a vengeance, holding his arms out for Russell, ready to tear his throat out. Russell firmly swung the knife with both hands, creating lines of red on both of the man's palms. The man shrieked, his hideous voice sending shivers down Russell's spine. Refusing to waste time, Russell thrust the pocket knife into the man's heart, before steadily pushing him to the ground.
Russell jaw-dropped, looking at what he had committed just now. However, the man was still alive, showcasing his vampire-like, knife-sharp teeth, at Russell, a horrible hiss radiating from his vocal cords. Russell shrieked like a Victorian woman, rapidly putting his shoe on the man's chest, pulling the knife out and letting it loom in the air for a bit, and ramming it into the man's throat, a flower of blood blooming from his nasty skin.
Russell fell on his backside, backpedaling away to the wall by the wooden and red couch, again not believing what he performed just now. What the fuck…? But—Russell looked at the man's chest and noticed the golden medallion hanging from its neck. Russell got on his knees and pulled the medallion to his eyes. On it was a picture of a dragon-like being eating its tail, making its body look like a perfect circle.
"Russell!" An older female called out, and Russell saw his mother–Kayla–and grandmother–Natasha–run up to him, faces painted in fear and panic. Kayla wore a red and yellow flower print headband that sat on a brilliant set of shoulder-length box braids. She wore a gray T-shirt, jeans, and white running shoes. Natasha had a bush of gray hair on her head with a headband similar to Kayla's as she wore a green-trimmed, raspberry-pink dress and dark brown leather sandals. An unforgiving stain of skin cancer sat on Natasha's left shoulder, waiting to be removed by a dermatologist.
"What in the Lord's name happened?" asked Natasha exasperatedly.
Russell stammered, "This grunt tried to kill me; I killed him with my knife…"
Kayla saw the medallion in Russell's grasp and quickly snagged it from Russell, inspecting it with full vigor. Kayla cupped her mouth, giving it to Natasha, whispering to her, "They're back…"
Back? Who's back?
Natasha looked at the medallion herself, her face panicked like her daughter's, before telling Russell, "Russell, this will sound insane, but—you come from a long line of demon hunters from your father's side. Russell, The Brotherhood has come to wreak havoc on our world again."
Russell's eyes went wide. WHAAAAAAT?
!
"How The Brotherhood came to be is lost to time, but their supreme goal was to take over the world by enslaving premenarche females, capturing and forcefully breeding with still fertile women, and killing postmenopausal women," Natasha informed Russell, as the Jenkins family sat in their kitchen sometime later.
Russell sat before his grandmother, his shoulders against the chair, arms folded over his chest, appearing exhausted. Russell straightened himself up, "Do they do anything to men?"
Kayla sadly answered, "They do; they force strong men into their fold and kill weaker men."
Russell sighed as if he ran a marathon, feverishly rubbing his head. "The tenants here are at risk aren't they?"
"Of course," Kayla answered, touching her son's shoulder.
Natasha sighed nasally, "The Brotherhood is divided into seven armies, each representing the Seven Deadly Sins. The leaders wear these medallions that showcase each of the Sins' symbols. You killed the leader that represented Wrath."
Russell inquired, "Is there a domino effect with these guys? What happens if I kill the leader? Do their soldiers vanish, die, or turn back to normal?"
Natasha snapped her fingers, trying to remember, "It depends on the affected individual. If the individual was born from a Brotherhood member and fertile woman or was with The Brotherhood when they first emerged they would vanish. If the individual was forced into The Brotherhood, they would become normal again, assuming they were not fatally harmed in retaliation."
"What can we do to ensure the other leaders don't come and try to get us all?" Russell asked, arms spread out.
Natasha half-smirked, "The same thing your grampy did all those years ago—train to be a demon hunter. And then, slay those demons before they slay you."
!
Russell tied the garbage bag that held the leader of the Wrath army's cut-up corpse shut. Natasha and Kayla were currently talking to his little sisters Lydia and Emma about the predicament that was happening right now.
"Hey," David called out to Russell, albeit softer now.
Russell looked up and raised a brow at David as the former teased, "Oh, Prince Javi give you the day off?"
David took a deep breath. "I didn't know that you were enduring serious shit. I'm sorry for what I did; I can't force you to shake hands with others, especially the ones who act recklessly. I talked to Javier 'bout what he did with those twin girls." David began, arms folded over his chest, walking up to Russell. "It's not the first time he's acted like a dunderhead. He swore to be more responsible from now on, no more partying, no more drinking, and no more being a playboy."
"Thank God," Russell huffed, rolling his eyes.
"Yeah—that's not all," Javier added, coming down the stairs, hand on the rail. "We want to help solve whatever problems your family has right now. Our uncle, Hector, is a dermatologist. We can take your grandmother to him if she wants."
"Our uncle's boyfriend is a clinical psychiatrist," David informed Russell. "If your sister doesn't mind, we can take her to him. He can prescribe her the medication she needs to live a happy life."
"Why are you doing this?" Russell grilled the Garcia brothers.
"Our dad died from cancer sometime back," David revealed, voice sounding somber. "My wife Kate suffered from mental shit when she was growing up herself. I wouldn't wish that shit on anyone–not even your family."
Russell huffed, chuckling, "Fine. You guys talk to my mother and gram about this, but if you're fucking with us, you're not welcome here anymore."
Javier feverishly nodded, "Yeah. We totally get it," Javier held his fist out for Russell's to bump. "Friends?"
Russell still had a raised brow, looking at Javier's fist as if it were a weird rat hybrid. "No." Russell exited the building with the bag trailing behind him.