Garth’s Actions – Chapter 10

No Matter Where You Go, There You Are

Jahnny stood at the base of the narrow staircase, staring up at the battered apartment complex. The flickering light above the entrance buzzed weakly, casting erratic shadows on the cracked concrete walls. His breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the familiar sight. After everything, he was finally home.

The broken kitchen window, its jagged edges like teeth against the evening sky, brought a wave of memories rushing back. He remembered his father’s furious face, the shattering glass, and his mother’s voice screaming through the night. Now, the silence that hung in the air was almost suffocating.

With trembling hands, Jahnny adjusted the baggy shirt on his thin frame and stepped forward. Each footfall on the creaky stairs echoed like a drumbeat, growing louder in his ears. The smells of the building—stale cooking grease, mildew, and a faint whiff of cigarettes—hit him with an intensity that made his chest tighten. He had once loathed those smells, but now, they felt like the most comforting thing in the world.

He reached the door to their apartment. The chipped paint and loose hinges hadn’t changed. He placed a hand on the doorknob, the metal cool against his palm. Taking a deep breath, he turned it, and the door creaked open.


The air inside was still, stagnant, and heavy with the weight of neglect. Dust clung to every surface, illuminated by the pale moonlight streaming through the broken window. The kitchen table was cluttered with empty bottles, crumpled newspapers, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. It was as though time had frozen since the night he left.

Jahnny stepped inside, his feet brushing against a crumpled soda can that rolled lazily across the floor. The sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet. His heart raced as he moved further in, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of life.

“Mom?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Lila? Clara? Betsy?”

Nothing. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator answered him.

Turning the corner into the living room, Jahnny froze. His breath hitched in his throat, and his vision blurred as his mind struggled to process what he was seeing.

Garth lay sprawled on the couch, his head tilted back, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood stained his shirt and pooled on the worn fabric beneath him, soaking into the cushions. A deep gash ran across his throat, jagged and merciless. The metallic scent of blood filled Jahnny’s nostrils, making his stomach churn.

“No…” Jahnny whispered, his knees buckling. He stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the edge of the coffee table. “No, no, no…”

His father’s lifeless face stared back at him, a haunting contrast to the loud, fiery man he had known. Jahnny’s chest tightened, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His body shook violently as he backed away, his legs giving out beneath him. He collapsed onto the floor, curling into himself as the room spun around him.


Minutes passed—maybe hours. Time felt meaningless. Jahnny’s mind raced, replaying every argument, every fight, every drunken tirade. His father was gone. Dead. But that wasn’t what scared him the most. What scared him was the silence.

Where was his mother? Where were his sisters?

He forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. Slowly, he moved toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Each step felt like wading through quicksand, his body weighed down by dread. The hallway stretched endlessly before him, the doors at the end looming like dark sentinels.

Jahnny pushed open the first door. His and Lila’s room. Empty. The bed was unmade, her clothes scattered across the floor. A stuffed bear sat in the corner, its button eyes staring at him accusingly.

Slowly wading his way to the second door, his sister’s former room, now acting as a office for his parents, the few times they actually used it as it had also become a type of nursery, Jahnny’s hands shook as he reached for the doorknob. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. He hesitated, his mind screaming at him not to open it. But he had to.

The door creaked open, revealing a scene of chaos. The crib was overturned, the blankets stained with something dark and sticky. Betsy’s small mobile dangled uselessly from the ceiling, its gentle melody replaced by a suffocating silence.

Jahnny stumbled back, his body trembling uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His home—his family—was gone. Destroyed.

And then, something inside him snapped.

The room seemed to shift, the air growing heavy and thick. Objects around him began to tremble, vibrating with an unseen force. Jahnny barely noticed as the broken mobile lifted off the ground, spinning wildly in the air before slamming against the wall. The crib followed, crashing into the ceiling with a deafening crack.

The floor beneath him shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing out from where he stood. Jahnny’s vision blurred, his tears mingling with a strange, electric light that seemed to radiate from his very being.

The apartment building groaned as if alive, the walls trembling with the force of Jahnny’s anguish. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and the very foundation seemed to quake. The power surged within him, uncontrollable and raw, fueled by a rage and despair he couldn’t contain.

And then, with one final, explosive burst, the building began to collapse.

The world around him crumbled, the ceiling caving in as the walls buckled. Jahnny stood in the center of it all, his small frame silhouetted against the chaos. And as the rubble closed in around him, darkness took over.

For the first time in days, Jahnny felt nothing.

As the chaos consumed the room, a low, gravelly voice cut through the cacophony, sharp and disbelieving.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Is that… the kid?”

Jahnny spun toward the sound, his heart pounding against his ribs. In the corner of the crumbling living room stood Scar-Face, one of Big Ray’s enforcers, one of the men he became very familiar with in his time with Ray. His hulking frame leaned against the fractured doorway, his face a grim canvas of twisted flesh and scars. His eyes burned with a mix of disbelief and recognition.

“What the hell’s goin’ on in here?” Scar-Face muttered, stepping forward, his boots crunching over shattered glass and splintered wood. “Ain’t no way you made it out alive, kid. I saw that crash, you were done for.”

Jahnny froze, his body trembling. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as the lingering power hummed beneath his skin, begging for release. He didn’t respond—he couldn’t. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mind teetering on the edge of fury and fear.

Scar-Face tilted his head, a cruel smirk curling his lips. “You’re lookin’ different. What happened? You finally grow some balls out there, or is this some kinda ghost story?”

Jahnny’s eyes locked onto Scar-Face’s, his young face hardening. The memory of the van, the chains, the agony—all of it came rushing back in a wave of rage. The power surged again, objects around him vibrating violently as the air thickened with tension.

“Answer me, kid,” Scar-Face growled, his tone shifting to something darker, more dangerous. “What the hell are you?”

Jahnny’s voice, raw and trembling with both fear and anger, finally broke free. “I’m… not… a ghost.”

Scar-Face chuckled, the sound low and menacing. “No? Then what are you gonna do, huh? Little punk like you? You think you scare me?”

But as the words left his mouth, the room seemed to pulse. The remaining furniture flew backward, slamming against the walls as if an invisible force had shoved them aside. The floor beneath them cracked and groaned, and Scar-Face’s smug grin faltered for the first time.

“What the—” Scar-Face started, but he didn’t finish.

Jahnny’s small frame stood firm amidst the destruction, his eyes blazing with an unnatural light. “You should’ve left me alone,” he said, his voice eerily calm for a child.

Before Scar-Face could react, the floor beneath him buckled, a surge of gravity slamming him down with bone-crushing force. He cried out, his voice a mixture of pain and terror, as the power enveloped him, holding him down like an unrelenting hand. His knees were completely shattered during the initial weight of the force, causing him to let out a whiny scream.

Jahnny stepped closer, his face shadowed by the flickering light of the collapsing apartment. “You called me weak,” he said, his tone cold. “What do you think now?”

Scar-Face struggled, his body pinned against the ground, but the power held him firm. His wide eyes locked onto Jahnny’s, filled with a primal fear that he’d never felt before. “Kid, listen—”

“You listen,” Jahnny interrupted, his voice rising. “You’re not the one in control anymore.”

The weight of the moment bore down on Jahnny as he stood over Scar-Face, his small frame trembling but unyielding. The power coursing through him was no longer just an abstract feeling—it was tangible, raw, and terrifying. Scar-Face, pinned to the floor by an invisible force, gasped and squirmed, his once-confident sneer replaced by sheer terror.

“Kid! I didn’t mean it!” Scar-Face wheezed, his face turning red as the gravity pressed down harder. “I was just jokin’, alright?!”

Jahnny didn’t respond. His breathing was ragged, his fists clenched tight, the weight of every cruel word, every moment of pain, and every ounce of fear surging forward in this one act of retribution. Scar-Face’s pleas became muffled as the sound of creaking wood and shifting debris filled the room. Jahnny’s focus was absolute.

Then, like a beacon piercing through the storm, a sound shattered his concentration: a faint, high-pitched cry. A baby’s cry.

Jahnny’s head snapped toward the source. His grip on the power wavered, and Scar-Face gasped for breath, the crushing force lifting just enough for him to cough and sputter. Jahnny barely noticed as he stumbled toward his parent’s bedroom, his heart pounding in his ears.

The door was ajar, swinging slightly in the draft of the ruined apartment. Inside, the dim light revealed a scene that turned Jahnny’s blood cold. His mother, Marie, lay sprawled on the bed, her clothing in disarray, her chest rising and falling faintly with unconscious breaths. In the corner of the room, huddled together like frightened animals, were Lila and Betsy, their wide eyes reflecting sheer terror.

Jahnny’s stomach churned. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the room itself bore the weight of unspeakable horrors. He didn’t want to understand what had happened here—he couldn’t.

“Mom…?” Jahnny whispered, his voice cracking. He took a hesitant step forward, his bare feet brushing against the cold, grimy floor.

The baby’s cry grew louder, more insistent. Betsy, wrapped in a soiled blanket, shifted in Lila’s arms, her tiny face red with distress. Lila looked up at Jahnny, her lips trembling. She tried to speak, but no words came out, just a soft, choked sob.

Before Jahnny could take another step, heavy boots thudded against the hallway floor outside the apartment. His head snapped toward the noise, his senses sharp with newfound awareness. The door to the apartment burst open, and men in tactical gear poured in, their weapons raised. The room filled with the cold light of flashlights and the metallic clicks of safeties being disengaged.

“Target acquired,” one of them said, his voice muffled by a helmet.

Jahnny froze, his mind reeling. The leader of the group stepped forward, his stance casual yet commanding. He was an older man, with sharp, calculating eyes and a slight smirk that didn’t reach them.

“You must be the kid,” the man said, his tone almost amused. “The one James Wolfegang left behind.”

Jahnny blinked, his body still trembling from the power coursing through him. “James…” he murmured, his voice distant, like he wasn’t fully present. The name sounded like a distant echo in his fractured mind.

The leader raised an eyebrow. “So, you do know him. That makes this easier. Now tell me, what exactly did he do to you?”

Jahnny’s lips moved, almost on their own. His voice was hollow, disassociated. “Doctor James Philip-Charles Wolfegang the Third.”

The leader paused, his smirk fading. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He straightened up and gave a curt nod to his men. “Shoot him.”

Jahnny’s eyes widened, but before he could react, the room erupted in gunfire. The first bullets hit him square in the chest, the impact sending him flying backward. Pain exploded through his body as more rounds struck, the force of each shot slamming him against the far wall. He crumpled to the floor, blood seeping from his wounds.

The world blurred around him. He could hear Lila scream, her voice piercing through the haze. The baby’s cries rose to a fever pitch, but Jahnny couldn’t move. His body felt heavy, his limbs unresponsive. His vision began to fade, the edges of his sight darkening as the chaos swirled around him.

The gunfire ceased, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Jahnny lay on the floor, his body a mangled heap, vision flickering between blurred shapes and complete darkness. He gasped weakly, his chest heaving as he fought to hold onto consciousness. Every nerve in his body screamed in agony, but his mind clung to the faint, fractured pieces of awareness.

Through the haze, he saw the leader holster his weapon. The man turned toward Scar-Face, who was still gasping for air on the floor where Jahnny had left him pinned moments earlier. With a cold efficiency, the leader drew his sidearm, aiming it at Scar-Face without hesitation.

“Loose ends,” the leader muttered, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He pulled the trigger.

The sharp cracks of gunfire echoed in the small apartment. Scar-Face’s body jerked once, then slumped lifelessly to the floor. Blood pooled beneath him, the metallic tang of it mingling with the stifling stench of gunpowder. Jahnny’s stomach twisted and growled, his mind screaming for him to move, to do something—but his body refused to obey.

The leader turned to his men, his sharp gaze cutting through the dim chaos. “Bag the women. We’ll interrogate them at base. If they’ve had contact with Wolfegang, we need to know.”

“No!” Jahnny’s voice was a hoarse rasp, barely audible, but his heart thundered against his ribcage. He wanted to scream, to lunge, to tear them apart, but all he could do was lie there, helpless.

The heavy boots of the mercenaries stomped toward the bedroom. Jahnny’s barely-open eyes caught glimpses of Lila clutching Betsy tightly, her tear-streaked face twisted in terror. Marie remained limp on the bed, unmoving as one of the men lifted her carelessly over his shoulder. The cries of Baby Betsy cut through Jahnny like shards of glass, the sound growing louder as a soldier roughly pulled her from Lila’s arms.

“No!” Jahnny tried again, his voice breaking.

His vision darkened further, the edges of the room dissolving into nothingness. Every sound seemed distant and distorted, as though he were slipping beneath an icy surface. But even as his body gave out, something deep inside him stirred—a primal, raw force that refused to let go.

Betsy’s cry pierced the void, sharp and heart-wrenching. The sound ignited something within Jahnny, a spark that erupted into a roaring inferno. His chest heaved as he let out a guttural, blood-curdling scream that seemed to come from somewhere far deeper than his throat.

The apartment trembled.

The cry rose in pitch and intensity, shaking the walls, rattling the furniture, and shattering what few intact windows remained. The mercenaries froze, exchanging panicked glances as the very floor beneath their feet quaked violently.

“What the hell—?” one of them shouted, his voice barely audible over the deafening rumble.

The building groaned, its ancient framework buckling under the onslaught. Chunks of plaster and drywall rained down, the ceiling cracking apart in jagged lines. The leader turned, his expression hard but tinged with unease. “Fall back! Fall ba—”

His command was drowned out by the roar of collapsing beams. The entire apartment complex seemed to convulse, as if some unseen force had gripped it and was tearing it apart from the inside.

Jahnny’s scream continued, his body wracked with uncontrollable energy. He couldn’t see anymore—his world was nothing but blackness—but he could feel everything. The vibrations, the collapse, the panicked shouts, and the agonized cries of those around him. All of it surged through him, an unstoppable wave of destruction fueled by raw emotion.

And then, silence.


The night air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood and plaster. The remains of the apartment complex stood as a jagged, smoldering ruin, a twisted monument to the chaos that had consumed it. Emergency sirens wailed in the distance, mingling with the faint cries of survivors and the barking orders of responders attempting to secure the area.

Near the edge of the destruction, a lone mercenary stood amidst the wreckage, his black tactical gear smeared with soot and grime. He leaned against a crumbling wall, holding a crackling radio to his ear. His face was obscured by a mask, but his voice carried a mixture of frustration and weary professionalism.

“Mission report,” he began, his tone clipped as he spoke into the radio. “The apartment complex is completely destroyed. We lost a lot of good men, but the target—Jahnathan Stokes—survived. We’ve got him restrained and en route to Facility 47 as we speak.”

The voice on the other end was inaudible, but the mercenary gave a brief nod, acknowledging the instructions. He glanced back toward the wreckage, his eyes narrowing at the sight of smoke curling into the night sky.

“Yes, sir,” he continued. “The kid’s a damn enigma. Took multiple rounds and walked away from that collapse like it was nothing. He was unconscious when we retrieved him, but… I don’t think that’ll last long. You were right—he’s a lot more dangerous than we expected.”

The radio buzzed with static as the unseen voice responded. The mercenary adjusted his stance, his tone shifting slightly, betraying a hint of unease.

“And Wolfegang?” he asked, the name tinged with both disdain and grudging respect. “Yeah… we got him too. Barely. Son of a bitch was half-dead when we pulled him from that barn, but he’s stable now. According to the medics, he’ll be able to fully regenerate once they get him to a proper lab. Not sure how I feel about that, but… your call.”

He paused, tilting his head as he listened intently. After a moment, he nodded again, though his jaw clenched beneath the mask.

“Understood, sir. We’ll move forward as planned. The kid’s our priority now. If Wolfegang has any more tricks up his sleeve, we’ll be ready for him. Stokes won’t get far either—not this time.”

The mercenary lowered the radio, allowing the device to dangle from his chest harness. He took a deep breath, the reality of the scene settling heavily on his shoulders. The glow of the fire reflected in his dark visor as he turned toward the distant sound of helicopter blades cutting through the night.

“Damn kid,” he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with something that almost sounded like pity. “You don’t even know what you are, do you?”

With that, he stepped away from the ruins, disappearing into the shadows as the chaos of the night carried on, leaving the smoldering remains of Jahnny Stokes’ childhood behind.

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