“C’mon, let’s go take a look!” Big Jon got up from his post and adjusted his camo hat. Inside of his hunting pack, he pulled out a digital camera. A black lens horned the front of it. He flipped off the circular cover on the front and it dangled on a string.
The two of them stood and ventured out into the snow-covered field where the dead buck lay on the edge. Leaves crunched under their boots that left imprints on nature’s white blanket. Jon still couldn’t believe what he had done. The closer they approached, the higher his heart rate went.
“Wow Jon, you damn near knocked his eye out! That’s just above the lid there!” Big Jon proudly proclaimed. His camouflage gloves examined the downed creature, showing his son the hole in which his .308 bullet formed with speed and precision that was as smooth as butter. “I’m proud of you son, very proud.” He patted his son’s shoulder again and got up from the slumped deer. “Go ahead, grab his antler there. I wanna get a shot of this. My son’s first buck!”
Big Jon crouched a few feet away in the snow and brought the camera to his eye. Jon grabbed the one lone antler of the buck and held the head up. The tongue hung from the side of the deer’s dead mouth. The Remington was in Jon’s other hand, standing with its barrel facing the sky. He felt just like his father from that Polaroid photograph and his grandpa from the even more ancient, black and white one. They had shot and killed bucks when they were Jon’s age, both getting their picture taken afterward. It was this photograph that marked the beginning of manhood.
Now, it was Jon’s time to leave his boyhood behind and become a young man. He smiled at his dad with his rifle and trophy, not only smiling at his newfound maturity but also at the feeling that he and his father had done something together. They accomplished something in which they both shared an equal, genuine fascination and enjoyment. The connection was there. Jon, at that moment, before the camera snapped a moment in time, felt like there was no difference between him and his father. He was his father, and his father was him. They were the same that day.
“Alright, just like that son. Lookin’ good! Ready? One, two, three…”
With the click of a button, the camera flashed a bright white light that shined over the field of snow. It filled Jon’s wide eyes with a blinding ray that took him from the early winter morning, back to the soaked late spring.
Chapter FIFTY-SEVEN
The Storm Ends
“Jon!” Rae was in Jon’s ear. She shook him awake from the memory. He wished she hadn’t. “Jon! Speak to me! Please don’t die, please don’t go!” She was weeping and pulling up on the back of Jon’s bloodied shirt. The rain had soaked in with the blood and made his entire top a drenched, red mess.
The water puddled and streamed to the edges of the asphalt circle and dumped into the sewer drains.
There were no more daggers from the sky and the thunder had trailed off to a low crumble toward the north. Jon, somehow, was in the middle of the cul-de-sac, lying next to Rusty, who had gone the way of the buck. A .308 caliber bullet struck him just above the eye. A bloody hole went from Rusty’s forehead to the back of his hillbilly buzzcut. Jon almost laughed at the sight of his revenge. First, you hit me with your rifle. Then, I shoot you with mine. He rubbed his scab. It had split back open from the fall on the asphalt. It was dripping with wet blood.
“Jon, you’re alive! You did it!” Rae exclaimed. She helped turn Jon’s body over and held him.
“I. . . I am. . . I guess I am, aren’t I? Are you ok?” he asked.
He could feel her nod her head as she hugged him close. Jon held her too. They were both drenched. They rocked for a moment in each other’s arms, tired from the fight that seemed to last lifetimes.
“I’m sorry, Rae,” Jon cried. He swallowed lumps. “I’m so sorry. Your mother. . . Dominic. . . ”
She cried too. She couldn’t speak, only feel, only hold. Jon’s shoulder wept, too. His hand felt cool. The two of them sat in the middle of the cul-de-sac, slumped in the aftermath of chaos. They saw sights and heard sounds that no man or woman should ever have to endure.
Rae pulled her head back from the embrace. Her hair was a pitch-black mop. Her left eye was swollen. Still, her beauty remained as if she fell from heaven. “Let’s go. We need to get you inside and cover your wounds.”
“My h-house,” Jon stuttered. “Let’s go to my house. We can’t go back in there…your house…it’s…”
Rae nodded. Jon didn’t have to utter another word. She understood. It would do no good for her heart and mind to see what remained in her house. She would, at some point, return to see the aftermath. But not right now. She needed to get somewhere safe with Jon.
“Can you move at all?” she asked.
“I think so, just a little bit.”
“C’mon, we’ll go slow.”
“How about fast?”
They began to rise from the asphalt. Rusty’s body lay motionless with his new piercing above his brow. His mouth was locked open as if he just had walked into his surprise birthday party. Neither of them gave another glance to him as Rae brought Jon up to his feet. He put his arm around her neck, which was red with scratches from Rusty’s torturous hands.
Together, they limped and stumbled across the street to 524 Franklin Court.
Chapter FIFTY-EIGHT
Memories
“In the pantry, on the wall,” Jon had answered to Rae when she asked if he had a first aid kit. His voice was weak, and he lay with his wet back on the living room couch, shivering. Mrs. Barnes wouldn’t yell at him for having his soaking body stain the sofa because Mrs. Barnes, as well as the rest of the Barnes gang, were gone. Dead? No one could answer that. The last person who might have seen them, Mrs. Cooper, was now taken out of the game with three bullet holes to the head. Jon accepted that he could only see his folks alive in his memories.
Jon was white as paper. Like a ghost, you could see through him. He hadn’t thought about how much blood he’d lost or how much time had passed since he got a nice little jab in his back. His mind was as clear as his eyes were when he was injected into that memory. No obsessing over every little thing. No constant questioning.
Things were strangely calm, and it was nice to be out of his head for once. The only thoughts that remained were of Rae.
It was just her and him now, two people who have had their lives ripped and torn to pieces by a microscopic parasite. Bottled water of all things. Corporate greed was to blame. If only the word had gotten out sooner or someone had paid closer attention to the operations.
It didn’t matter, it was just Jon and Rae in the world now. She would come out and take care of him, using the basic nursing skills her mother taught her over the years. Good thing she had listened every now and again.
Jon would tell her what happened in the basement. She would cry and Jon would be there to hold her, and she would be there to hold him. Together, they would have to learn to forgive, but not to forget. They couldn’t forget the memories they had before this all went down. That’s all they had left to hold on to. Memories.
Jon put his good hand in his pocket and felt the sapphire ring still intact. He rubbed it, remembering the room it came from, the house it came from. His grandmother who owned it. His grandfather who loved her. His cousins. His parents. They all loved each other and always will no matter where they were now.
In the pantry, Rae was fumbling with the first aid kit that was bolted to the wall. She decided to just rip the damn thing out.
Inside the big white box with a red cross in the middle, packets of bandages and ointments rattled around. She yanked the four screws out, popping dust from the holes in the paint.
The living room spun. Jon smiled. To die in the living room, very ironic. The walls seemed to breathe as the ceiling descended toward Jon then ascended back up. He was ready to go if it truly was his time to leave this earth. He hoped when he passed that he would show up in that memory of him and his father again, back in the brisk November air. Big Jon and he would driv
e home in the Ford and talk and laugh about the day. How the deer looked. How Jon’s aim deemed him a buck-shooting prodigy. They would pull up in the driveway and run inside to tell mom what had happened and show her the picture. She would grab her chest and say, “Oh my goodness. I can’t believe you did that! My goodness! Jon, what did you teach your son to do?” They would all laugh and have leftover Thanksgiving food. Turkey and sweet potatoes. He could smell it now. Corn and stuffing, although Jon hated stuffing. But still, they would all be together. A family.
Jon’s eyelids began to close. They would open, flutter for a moment, then close again. His heart beat with a slow thump that struggled with every pump.
Rae rushed back out into the living room and stood above Jon, unwrapping and uncapping various things. She was alarmed at his sickly appearance. Jon just smiled, hearing the noises fading in and out around him. Rae said something, but he didn’t know what. Her hands moved frantically. Jon grinned as he caught what glimpses he could of her. What a woman, he thought. He closed his eyes again and the words and sounds came and went.
Between the waking world and the sleeping memories, Jon might not have been aware of the sound of tires pulling into the driveway. He only smiled and nodded at Rae and her angelic voice. However, the sound that he did hear made his eyes shoot wide open. It was a sound that was so familiar, that it made Jon’s heart rate skyrocket to the moon.
It was the sound of keys jingling and jangling outside the front door.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I’d like to give a big thanks to Lawrence Knorr, Chris Fenwick, and everyone at Sunbury Press who not only gave me the opportunity to have my first novel published but gave me priceless knowledge on editing and the process of completing a book. You’ve made my dream a reality.
Thanks to my older brother, Rich, who introduced me to Stephen King novels and changed my life forever. He was also the first person to read this book and give me feedback on it.
Thanks to my mother and father for always supporting me. I’ve worked with my father since high school and he’s always allowed me the freedom to pursue my passions. He also helped me review and polish this book before it was published.
Thanks to my friend, Brandon Ulp, for taking my very first headshot. You’re a talented dude.
I’d also like to thank my grandparents, sister-in-law, and niece for their undying love and support during this project.
Finally, I’d like to thank you, the reader. I appreciate each and every one of you for taking the time to read my work. I hope you’ve enjoyed it because there are a lot more stories to come.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Brandon Ulp
Oliver C. Seneca was born and raised in the suburbs of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. His first foray into storytelling came in high school when he was accepted to the Capital Area School for the Arts where he focused on filmmaking. Oliver became passionate about writing after reading The Long Walk by Stephen King. Oliver is a graduate of The Pennsylvania State University and, in addition to writing, he works in his family’s law practice.
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an imprint of Sunbury Press, Inc.
Mechanicsburg, PA USA
NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Oliver C. Seneca.
Cover Copyright © 2019 by Sunbury Press, Inc.
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ISBN: 978-1-62006-224-1 (Trade paperback)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019952278
FIRST HELLBENDER BOOKS EDITION: October 2019
Product of the United States of America
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Set in Garamond
Designed by Chris Fenwick
Cover by Chris Fenwick
Edited by Chris Fenwick
Continue the Enlightenment!
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