Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,34

who had now shifted to the back of the establishment, peeking through the slats of a gate at the side of the house.

Michael heard the owner greet the two men, he heard them reply, their voices muffled through the brickwork.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” the baffled owner stuttered, sounding anxious.

“Are you Alan Richards?” One said, repeating his initial question.

“Tell me who you are first.”

“Friends,” Two said simply.

The owner took a step back, swapping his glance cautiously between the pair. He was used to having strangers drop into his home, but these two were stranger than strange.

“Friends!” He spat, indignant. “How can you be my friend if you don’t even know my name?”

“Is it Alan Richards?” One said without fault.

At that moment Michael entered the room from the back of the house, stepping in from the kitchen door at the other end of the spacious room. The B&B owner was now cornered between three intruders.

“What’s going on here?” Michael said to attract attention.

All eyes fell upon him, including those of Naff who casually, and reluctantly, trotted into the room behind him.

“Alan Richards?” One asked Michael.

“Who wants to know?” Michael said with a flick of his head.

“I bloody well would,” the real Alan Richards said. “What the hell is going on here? Who are you?” he asked both sets of intruders.

A noise from beyond the room alerted them; they all turned towards the door to the living room to see a woman enter. Her face was etched with a pleasant greeting at first, one practised through years accompanying her husband in the hospitality business, but when she saw the three strangers standing in front of her, with questioning and intimidating glances on each of their faces, her happy eyes widened.

“What’s going on?” she looked beyond the suited men at her husband, the fear in his eyes told her something was wrong. Michael and the two men watched silently as the woman saddled up to her husband and was taken under a protective arm. He whispered something reassuring to her and then stared at the intruders in his home, flashing each of them a threatening stare that they all returned.

Michael ignored the owner and strode straight up to the two men. Standing in the centre of them he peered up into both pairs of sunglasses. “Who are you?” he asked them.

“None of your concern,” Two stated.

“Unless you’re Alan Richards,” One added.

There was a brief pause, followed by Two querying: “Are you?”

Michael nodded his head and lowered his gaze. “Yes.”

He saw them simultaneously grasp for their pockets but he didn’t react. He saw them both produce pistols that glimmered and spread the dim sunshine that crept in from the large windows, but he didn’t flinch. Only when the bullets were ejected -- the thick thuds of gunpowder expanding in the small room -- did he move. He flung himself backwards, toppling over a sofa and flipping dramatically on the floor.

The men turned their pistols on Alan Richards and popped a staccato of bullets into his surprised face before he had a chance to assess the situation and get out of the way. His wife watched in horror and opened her mouth to vocalise her terror, but her words were sucked back into her lungs when a strong of bullets pierced expertly through her forehead.

The men then turned their guns on Naff, ejecting the remaining bullets from the magazine into him. There were six shots in total, all of which hit Naff in the chest, but he didn’t budge. He remained standing, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets, a look of disinterest on his face.

A glimmer of emotion, shock, perhaps awe, appeared on the faces of the two men. They swapped glances, making sure they both felt the same way, before turning back to Naff.

“You’re not mortal?” One asked.

“Uh huh,” Naff casually shrugged his shoulders. “This was your great plan?” he asked Michael.

A pained sigh lifted from the floor. Michael pulled himself to his feet with his hands grasping his chest and a twisted expression on his face. “That fucking hurt,” he spat through gritted teeth.

He turned to glare at his friend; a knowing look was exchanged and then shrugged off by Naff. He pulled out his timer, checked the display and then stuffed it back into his pocket. “Bang on time for once,” he declared.

“You’re immortal as well?” One uttered redundantly.

Two pulled out a timer of his own and checked the screen, looking perplexed. His colleague glanced over his shoulder. Michael waited patiently.

“The