SINNERS

SINNERS
CHAPTER ONE: GENESIS
Tennessee, Texas

It was a cold summer night; the full moon hung high, swollen with silver light, watching over the city like an ancient guardian. The Houston Texans had just triumphed in a hard-fought NFL match against the Kaizer Chiefs, and the people poured into the streets in celebration.

A parade snaked through Tennessee’s avenues. Trumpets blared, drums thundered, and the soft cry of saxophones floated above the noise, weaving into a strange, beautiful harmony. Football fans sang old victory songs at the top of their lungs, their voices echoing against the walls of the city. Athletes rode in an open-top bus, hoisting the Superbowl trophy overhead, champagne spraying into the air like glittering rain. The entire city vibrated with life, glowing with triumph.

Police officers lined the sidewalks, watchful but reluctant to spoil the joy. Confetti snowed down, sticking to damp sidewalks, and cheerleaders danced their way through the streets, their pom-poms glinting in the neon lights. The march pulsed its way from NRG Stadium all the way toward Town Square, a tide of laughter, music, and unrestrained celebration.

On this night, Bucky BonAires and his younger brother Joseph decided to join in.

Bucky was a towering man—square-jawed, with hair black as midnight, and arms hardened from years in the mechanic’s shop. By day, he repaired engines with grease-stained hands; by night, he pored over scripture, chasing his deeper calling in theology.

Joseph was different. A family man with two children, he worked as a plumber. Tonight was rare—his wife and kids were in Utah visiting her mother, leaving him free to spend time with Bucky like they hadn’t done in years.

Inside a local bar, the celebration raged on. Cowboys and ranchers stomped the wooden floors in rhythm, clapping their hands and twisting their waists to old country tunes. Boots struck the floor so hard the ground seemed to quiver beneath them. Women danced in tight groups, swaying and laughing, their perfume cutting through the heavy fog of beer and smoke.

Bucky sat at the bar, watching Joseph and their old friend Chris slap pool balls across the green table. A cigarette glowed between Bucky’s fingers, his lips tasting the bitter edge of cheap beer. The music thundered:

Her daddy says, “He ain’t worth a lick...”

A blonde waitress leaned over the counter, her smile sweet and deliberate.
“Here you go, honey. A Bud Light and a pack of smokes,” she said, eyes sparkling.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Bucky answered, his Southern drawl thick.

“You’re welcome, darlin’.”

But the warmth of the bar grew stifling. The smoke pressed down on him, the music gnawed at his patience. He rose from the stool, motioning toward his brother.

“Hey, kid—we’ve got to go.”

Joseph frowned, cue stick in hand. “C’mon, Buck. One more game.”

Bucky sighed. “Fine. But I’m driving. I don’t trust your judgment right now.”

Not long after, they left the bar, laughter still spilling out into the night behind them. Rain began to spit across the pavement as they reached Bucky’s old truck.

“Crazy night, huh?” Joseph muttered as they climbed in.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, starting the engine.

The drizzle thickened into a relentless downpour. Raindrops hammered the windshield, each wiper sweep barely cutting through the blur. The asphalt twisted like a coiled snake beneath them, slick and treacherous.

Then, without warning, headlights cut through the storm—blinding, massive, bearing down on them. A freight truck swerved into their lane.

Impact.

The world exploded in metal and glass. Bucky’s pickup crumpled like paper, debris scattering across the road. The sound was deafening—a roar of destruction that silenced everything else.

When the dust cleared, Bucky stirred, his forehead bleeding, body trembling. Pain seared through his skull. Beside him, Joseph lay broken and motionless, his chest rising faintly, shallow and weak.

“Joseph!” Bucky roared, voice cracking, but his brother did not stir.

He forced himself out of the wreckage, stumbling into the storm. He clawed at the passenger door, muscles straining, but the metal was twisted, unyielding. He grabbed a shard of steel, prying at it with everything he had. His hands shook. His voice broke as he screamed into the night for help.

At last, headlights approached. A lone car slowed, a Good Samaritan rushing out into the rain. The man dialed 911, and within minutes, sirens pierced the storm.

At the hospital, Joseph was wheeled into intensive care, his body a ruin of broken bones and torn flesh. Bucky suffered only minor injuries, but no relief came with survival. He sat on a stiff bed, staring at the ceiling tiles, each second a crushing weight on his chest. His mind replayed the crash over and over—every decision, every possibility of what he could have done differently. Guilt gnawed at him, relentless.

Groaning, he reached into his blood-stained jacket and pulled out his phone. With trembling fingers, he dialed.

“Hi Mom... I’m in the hospital. Joseph’s in ICU. Please... pick up.” His voice broke into silence as the call went to voicemail.

He lowered the phone, staring at the floor, shadows closing in.

“Good God,” he whispered, his voice hollow. “What have I done?”

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