Chapter 8 - THE ADVANTAGE OF THE DARK
"What is this?" Arthur yelled, the sound of his heavy boots shuffling in confusion. A gunshot deafened the narrow hallway, the muzzle flash illuminating the space for a fraction of a second. The bullet embedded itself in the drywall inches from my shoulder.
"You're in my world now, old man," Callahan's voice echoed, seemingly coming from all directions at once.
Because Callahan knew the exact acoustic layout of the basement, he moved silently, throwing a heavy wooden hymnal cart into Arthur's path. The older man tripped, the gun clattering across the linoleum floor. I dropped to my knees, scrambling in the pitch black, sweeping my hands frantically until my fingers brushed the cold steel of the revolver.
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"I have the gun!" I yelled to Callahan.
The lights suddenly flickered and surged back to life. The church's automated backup generator had kicked in. Arthur was scrambling to his feet, pulling a secondary weapon—a small switchblade—from his jacket, his eyes locked onto Callahan with murderous intent.
