The Drayton Chronicles

by Bertauski, Tony

  Drayton was sitting on his bed.

  “Fuck!” He grabbed his chest and heaved. “You going to give me a heart attack. How’d you get in here?”

  “You were busy.”

  Young looked back at the computer. “Yeah, well you win. I can’t find you anywhere. You’re a man of mystery. I don’t have a prize for you, if that’s what you came for.”

  Young went through all the searches he’d done, and they included CIA agents, past and present, and witness protection candidates. He had his doubts how thorough or accurate those databases were but they came up blank anyway.

  “I did find a Nassfaurauttu,” he said. “It was one name. He came up on a Civil War veteran database. But unless you’re a hundred and fifty, I think that was a miss. You don’t look a day over a hundred.”

  Great party, the Civil War.

  “The same guy fought for the North and the South. Unless I missed a history lesson, soldiers picked a side and stuck with it.” An idea suddenly hit him. “Unless he was a mercenary…”

  Young spun around and attacked the keyboard. He compared two lists, side by side. “What am I doing? Who cares, unless he’s a relative of yours. Do you think…”

  Drayton was looking at the shelf above his bed. Mostly books, a few trophies from Spelling Bees and Academic competitions, a Lego Challenge award and one picture. His mother framed it for him. They were at the beach. Bo had built a huge sand castle for a sand sculpting contest. He got third in his category. In the picture, Bo was lying in the hole in front of the castle. Young was only a few years old. He sat on the castle like a throne. His mother was on his left.

  Drayton took the picture down and touched the white space that had been cut out on Young’s right. He traced the outline of a man that was once in the picture, now reduced to an empty space.

  “What was he like?” Drayton said. “Your father.”

  “How should I know?” He took the picture from Drayton. “He left.”

  He wiped the dust from the glass. Drayton heard his pulse bang in his chest. Energy bent the space around him in waves. Young stared at the photo and absently thumped his hand against the armrest of his wheel chair in time to his heartbeat. He moved to thumping his useless leg, beat it with the same steady rhythm.

  He left.

  Drayton squatted next to the wheelchair. Young stared straight ahead, resolute. Drayton could feel the blue vein just under his skin beat as if it were on the tip of his tongue. He placed his hand over Young’s forehead and turned his head, let him look deep into his eyes.

  Drayton took Blake Barnes’ life. He held his memories in his eyes and Young saw the extent of his father’s tortured life. The haunting thoughts. The divided personality. Young saw the insanity that ate his insides and eroded his rationality.

  Blake Barnes did not abandon his family, he abandoned life. He did not leave because his son was crippled and broken, he ran because he was frightened. He ran because he lacked courage. He ran because he was lost.

  Not because of Young.

  A tear rolled down Young’s cheek. In those few moments, he absorbed his father’s life from Drayton and understood his past. He finally knew what his mother had been telling him all his life. It’s not your fault.

  More than that, the last few words of his father’s life absolved much of the pain and heartache Young carried like a string of weights attached to his chair. In two simple words, he gained what he believed he had lost. Drayton delivered the message.

  I’m sorry.

  Young was still holding the picture. Drayton wasn’t there. He was down the long, winding driveway. Young was slumped in his chair, weeping, when he left. Annie came into his room and held him. Drayton heard the wailing. Felt the tenderness of his mother’s touch.

  XVIV

  Drayton stood in the pasture late that night, watching Annie finish in the kitchen. Young was asleep. Bo was watching a Braves game. They thought Drayton was upstairs doing his silent thing. They would come up the next morning to find the door ajar and the bed sheets without wrinkles. They would also find enough money to pay next month’s rent.

  When Annie next checked her bank account, she would discover she would have enough to cover more than next month’s rent. Drayton had accounts all over the world. It only took a few keystrokes on Young’s laptop to transfer a sum that would take care of them the rest of their lives.

  Annie didn’t need money. She only wanted things to be right. Blake Barnes broke her heart, but she’d moved on from that. Her pain and regret were the kids she let get in her husband’s path. That would be resolved. And in two years, she would die in peace.

  Drayton left the farm.

  XX

  Hal skipped dinner.

  He sat on the edge of his bed. The shower ran in the bathroom. Steam flooded from the open door. There was a knock on the bedroom door. “Are you all right?” his wife called.

  “I’m fine!” he snapped.

  Hal was not fine. A sickness had settled in his stomach. Something foul spread throughout his mid-section. The stench of his insides permeated his senses. He had hovered over the toilet with his finger in his throat, but he couldn’t make the ache stop.

  He’d had viruses that kept him puking through the night, but never had he felt sickness this deep. A sadness soaked through his stomach and chest. Tears were knotted in his throat. He felt like a pussy.

  He retrieved the Pepto-Bismol from the bathroom, fumbled with the lid, dropping it on the floor. He lifted the bottle to his lips, ignored the crusty flakes that slogged down his throat with each chug. But it didn’t coat the sickness. Didn’t dispel the sadness.

  He lifted the bottle again then suddenly dropped it on the bed. The pink liquid glugged over the floral bedspread. Hal clutched his chest. He tried to breathe. He hit the corner of the bed and rolled onto the floor. The world washed past his senses, dark and blurry.

  “Hal? Are you all right?” The door knob rattled. “HAL?”

  The pain radiated from his heart and engulfed it like an elephant was standing on his chest. Veins bulged along his forehead.

  The boy stood at his feet. His skin was as black as the sky outside the window, drawn tightly over his cheeks. He slid his cold fingers over Hal’s sternum, making little circles. Hal moved his lips. He knew he invited this monster into his house many years ago, the day he took over all of Blake Barnes’ debt. The day he began taking money from his pathetic family. His fate was now massaging his chest.

  Hal felt something draining from his chest. It was a smooth flow, like a vaporous stream of wintry air. The boy closed his eyes and tipped his head back. His skin loosened. And as it did, the pressure released Hal’s chest. The room started to dim. The last thing he saw was Death’s face looking down on him. Suddenly, he felt the urge to confess his sorrow for the thing’s he’d done. There were so many of them, but he didn’t have the strength. He wanted to cry.

  Big sleep fell on Hal. As he parted, he heard the boy’s final words and took them with him into the darkness. He left his body as the boy spoke softly, genuinely.

  Thank you.

  Bearing the Cross

  Vengeance is not delivered with a sword.

  I

  Blinker on.

  Look left. Right.

  Two hands on the steering wheel. Eyes on the road.

  Andrew Drummond knew the difference between buzzed driving and drunk driving.

  He was drunk. Not buzzed. Therefore, he drove like a geezer: hands at 10 and 2, just under the speed limit. The trick was not to take your eyes off the road. See, most drunks made the mistake of looking in the rearview mirror or down at the speedometer. Problem is, drunk time to sober time is a 10:1 ratio, meaning that if you look down for one second, ten seconds go by in real time. Unfortunately, for the drunk, you can only drive in real time.

  Andrew never looked down.

  Highway 61 was not drunk-driver friendly. It was the hills and curves and narrow shoulder. But this late at night, there
were few cars. And the trees were dense on each side, creating a tunnel effect on the road. For some reason, that always helped Andrew focus. It was like blinders that funneled his headlights onto the road. This late at night, Andrew drove 61. Always made it home.

  His only distraction: a plastic chip swinging from the rearview.

  A one year chip from AA. One year sober. His good luck charm. Can’t take that down.

  He got that chip six months prior at a Summerville meeting in the United Way. They were sitting on cold metal chairs that numbed your ass no matter how many times you shifted left or right. Carl Fanning, his sponsor, presented it to him. Carl was a good man. Sort of round, always needed to shave. Always full of wisdom.

  Carl gave him the chip, said how proud he was. The meeting applauded with gusto. Some stood and Carl gave him a bear hug, patted his back like he was trying to kill him. Then the others hugged him, one at a time. Some wept. All the while, Andrew rubbed that plastic poker chip with his thumb like he was shining a coin.

  Next day, he fell off the wagon. No, he jumped off. Both feet. Fuck it, if you’re going to it, don’t half-ass the motherfucker. Andrew leaped as far off that wagon as he could.

  See, those other fuckers at the meeting had their war stories, but you could pile every one of them on top of each other and they still couldn’t touch Andrew’s shit. He had every right to drink. Honestly, he should be smacked out on every drug known to man, but booze was his way. He tried it both ways, sober and stone-ass drunk. Ask him, it was better to get numb then climb those 12 fucking steps. Every. Goddamn. Day.

  See, Eric Clapton had it right the first time.

  He spent half his life on a bender. Then his kid fell from a building. Died. Clapton stayed sober, after that. But Clapton didn’t lose everything. He just lost a kid. But he didn’t lose it all.

  He didn’t lose it all.

  Andrew decided Clapton didn’t know shit about losing everything. He came up with his own steps. Step one, numb the pain, the loss and sorrow.

  Step two. Repeat.

  Wise old Carl said he had to go through the pain, that his life was here and now. That he had a duty to live. It was his motherfucking responsibility. Carl said that things would get better. That behind every gray sky there was light. Whether he could see it or not, it was there. Trust the steps, Andrew. That’s what Carl told him. We’ve all been there. Just trust.

  But after a year, Andrew didn’t feel better.

  After a year, he still lay awake at night. Woke up clenching the sheets if he did sleep. He felt the straps of life’s straitjacket, the buckles across his back. He couldn’t escape his thoughts. Couldn’t escape his life. So fuck Carl and his 12 steps and fuck everyone. Andrew had everything taken from him.

  All because of one motherfucker.

  One cocksucker.

  Took it away.

  Find that sonofabitch and maybe he’d give the wagon another ride. Until then, Andrew soothed the ache. Andrew numbed the pain. He rarely went to work. He owned the fucking business and they didn’t need him there. They knew what they were doing, fuck it. Andrew didn’t care so much anymore.

  He drilled a hole in the one-year chip and hung it from the rearview mirror to remind him where he’d been. Until someone gave him a better reason to feel the pain, he was full-speed ahead. Someone needed to pay for this pain. Until he found the one responsible, he’d do it his way—

  Antlers.

  Two hands on the wheel.

  And the world went round and round.

  That chip swinging. Round and round.

  The end came for Andrew Drummond. Yeah. That sudden. He thought he’d be more relieved.

  As the windshield shattered.

  II

  The car, upside-down. Wheels spinning.

  One headlight beamed crooked across highway 61, spotlighting the deer among the broken windshield scattered like sparkling diamonds. The other headlight, punched out.

  Drayton saw it happen a few miles back. He sensed the impending death; knew these things like a shark sensing blood across miles of ocean. He didn’t make them happen, he could only see them like Destiny weaving the threads of human lives. Drayton knew where to be when they were finished. His ancient mind sniffed a man named Andrew Drummond. The frayed ends of his life were ending that night.

  In a car accident. Alone.

  Drayton walked along the empty highway, serenaded by treefrogs and moonlight. Occasionally, a car would drive down the road but Drayton walked far off the shoulder. Even if their headlights were to catch him, they wouldn’t see him. He was the color of the darkness beneath the trees.

  Andrew Drummond’s car had appeared over the hill, sloshing back and forth between the center line and the edge of the road. The deer blotted out the headlights. Drunk or not, he plowed the buck in the hindquarters before hitting the ditch at 54 miles per hour. The Toyota Prius rolled on its side, once then twice, flipped end over end and landed on the hood like a gymnast crashing to the mat.

  All hope lost.

  Quiet returned to the trees and the treefrogs filled the silence. Drayton left the shoulder and walked down the middle of the road, toeing the yellow dashes. Eventually, a car would come along and see the disaster. Someone would stop. Call the police. They’d look inside to find Andrew Drummond’s lifeless body.

  For now, he lived.

  Steam was rising from the underside of the car. Something loose was rubbing. Inside the car, Andrew’s soul was slipping away. His essence.

  There were many words to describe the life that permeated a human’s body, how it pumped the heart for decades and escaped upon death. Drayton typically didn’t use words to describe it. He could taste it beneath his tongue when he interacted with humans. This essence had many qualities, depending on the person, the emotions, age, and on and on. So many variables shifted the color and taste, but it was especially cool and intense when it was leaking away from the dying body. Where it was going, Drayton didn’t know.

  But it was that very essence he craved.

  Once upon a time, he took it from them whenever he was compelled. Brought them down in the prime of their lives. Even children. He drank their blood and relished the fear that spiked the essence with an intoxicating flavor. Like crack. But that was hundreds of years ago.

  The broken windshield crunched like silicone pebbles beneath his boots. The car gave a dying hiss. The deer lay motionless. Its eye, black and glassy. Drayton dragged his fingers down the scuffed bumper, the chrome edges nibbling at his fingertips. Beneath the fumes of gasoline and the smell of burnt rubber was the faint scent of whisky. Scotch. All of that took a backseat to the metallic tang of draining blood. He took a deep breath, then gently squatted down. Andrew was piled upside-down.

  Eyes open.

  “It’s about time.”

  His neck was propped at an odd angle, dark stains streaking his scrunched face. He blinked, heavily. It was less of a blink, more like closing his eyes and deciding to open them seconds later. His breathing did the same.

  Drayton could feel the man’s life essence seeping from his pores like vapor. He would take what was left, absorb it into his own body and satisfy the starvation that gnawed inside him. Always urging. Always gnawing.

  But Andrew Drummond was holding onto what was rightfully his. As long as his lungs contracted and expanded, he would cling to his life. But those rises and falls were numbered.

  Drayton watched.

  The two locked eyes in calm repose, like they were sitting for tea. A stream of blood, dark in the dim light, suddenly raced over his upside-down chin, over his lips and into his nostril like a spigot had been opened somewhere in his chest. It filled his sinus, but Andrew didn’t blink. Drayton reached inside the metal carnage and brushed the red rivulet from his lips, redirecting the flow down the side of his face and into his gray hair. The dark blood seemed to absorb into Drayton’s fingertips, his skin as dark as charcoal; blackened by centuries of sunlight. Skin without wrinkles. Skin th
at appeared human.

  Andrew thought Drayton was Death. Everyone Drayton visited did the same. Some with panic. Some with calm. He appeared at the moment when death was upon them. He wasn’t there to take them to the other side. That was their assumption. One thing was sure, he would be the last thing they saw.

  “You.” Andrew spit the word. Red flecks puffed off his lips. “Don’t let the…”

  His throat seized. There would be no more words sliding through it. His voice would no longer be heard. Those were the last words he would ever utter, and they were unfinished. Like his life. If he could move, he would’ve grabbed Drayton’s hand still soaking up blood. He would’ve made sure Drayton heard the rest. Don’t let the bastard get away with it.

  Somehow, Andrew knew he heard anyway. He was Death, after all. Right? Maybe he imagined it. Maybe his mind tricked him to believe he was Death when, in fact, it was just a young man watching him die. Regardless. He just wanted someone to hear his last will and testament.

  Drayton did hear. He could manipulate thoughts like his fingers and toes; could see them and feel them; could make humans believe his thoughts like they were their own. Could make them believe what he wished. Could make them forget. Could erase their pain. Or give it.

  He absorbed Andrew’s thoughts like they were Braille pressed onto the fabric of his mind. Drayton nodded.

  Andrew saw it. He knew he’d been heard. Knew his request would be carried forth because the Angel of Death was required to do such things. Right?

  Even though Drayton was required to do nothing of the sort — he didn’t know what he was, just not Death — he still accepted last requests. After all, Andrew was giving his gift of life. His essence. Whether he gave it willingly or not, Drayton accepted that sort of thing with gratitude. Who was he to deny the man’s dying wish? For it was a just request.