In Memoriam

by Matt James

  Jill comes running around the SUV, looking for something to kill. Then, she pauses, seeing me.

  “Frank, what are you—”

  The brush within the trees shakes, and the creature emerges, silencing Jill’s retort.

  It’s a puppy—a German Shepherd pup, to be exact. He/she is maybe six months old, at most, and it’s all skin and bones. Either way, the dog is moving well and only seems to be suffering from malnutrition and fright.

  After two more rounds of soft kissing noises and a little baby talk from Jill, the puppy wiggles its way over to me and buries its woeful face into my lap. Now, up close, I can see that he’s a boy. All he needs is some food, some love, and a bath. Definitely a bath.

  I sniff my shirt. Oh, that’s me…

  Gently, I lift the pooch up, thankful that he isn’t full-grown. Even now, my back is protesting the decision.

  “What are you doing?” Jill asks.

  I scratch him on the top of his head. “He’s my gift to Hope.” I grin. “What’d you get her?”

  Jill wants to be angry with me, but she can’t. Palm down, she reaches her open hand out. The puppy warily investigates it before giving it a couple of licks.

  She smiles. “She’ll love him…”

  We climb back into the Yukon with our newest new friend. He stays on my lap and curls into an adorably grimy ball. He’s snoring before Jill can even put the SUV back into drive. Poor guy has probably been on the run for weeks, hungry, alone, and petrified.

  There’s no collar around his neck either. Even if there was, I’m honestly unsure I’d look for his owner. They could’ve left already. We’d be risking even more than we did to find TJ, someone who was dead before Farrell’s crew even stepped foot into Gatlinburg. Plus, we’re beat up, and our numbers have thinned out dramatically.

  To put it simply: We need a break.

  Our ride up the hill is smooth and quiet. The only other time we stop is to check out our busted ride. I don’t go anywhere, however. Andy and I stay in our respective cars. The dog, whose name I’ll let Hope figure out, is still out cold. He’s having puppy dreams too, but instead of them being about something he’s chasing, it’s most likely him who’s running for his life.

  Jill, Cooper, and Jerry scrounge the upside-down SUV for anything they can find. Our abductors left quite a bit behind too. Everything we grabbed from the house with the bourbon bar is still there. Even my bottle of Eagle Rare survived!

  Yes!

  They obviously weren’t after our possessions. They were there for us. We were their goal—their dinner.

  Even our water supply, food, stocked overnight backpacks, a barebones first-aid kit… They took none of it.

  Jill closes the trunk of our current vehicle and heads around the Yukon, stopping at her open door. There, she closes her eyes and tilts her face up to the sunlit sky. A breeze whips by her, tossing her hair back. It seems to calm her soul. She takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, blowing a column of smoke into the air.

  The whole time I watch, I think of how lucky I am that she’s alive. We’ve been through a lot recently, but we’ve done it together. It's more than most families can say. The majority of those families are now incomplete or have been eliminated altogether. Entire generations—family trees—wiped out in the blink of an eye.

  She climbs back in and gets us moving again. My eyes haven’t left her face since she stepped back into view outside her door. It takes a few seconds for her to realize that I’m staring at her. When she does, she sees the look I have on my face. Whatever that look is, it makes her blush. My look feels like one of pride in her mixed with a little lust for her.

  I wink and flick my eyebrows. Jill’s eyes roll, and her right-hand finds my thigh. The movement wakes my companion, and he swiftly covers her fingers in sticky slobber.

  Good boy, I think, scratching him behind his ears.

  We pass through the gates to Sanctuary a couple of minutes later and head for the back of the neighborhood. Like everything else around us, all is still, except for Mother Nature. Snowfall has thickened a bit. It’s happened on and off since we arrived in Gatlinburg, and let’s face it, it's much better being in the cold without power than back in sweaty, disgusting, humid South Florida, where we could be living. I can’t imagine what I’d smell like if I were perspiring twenty-four-seven.

  Worse than my high school gym bag, for sure.

  I’m about to radio Andy and ask her how she’s doing but choose to stay quiet about it until she brings it up. She’s dealing with loss in her own way. She’s strong like Jill. She knew the potential outcome long before finding us outside the museum earlier today.

  Man, all of this happened in one day? Less than one, technically. I glance at my watch and see that it’s, in fact, only been a few hours.

  We round the central common area, where Hope was nearly attacked by the mountain lion. Circumventing it, I spot our front door just up ahead. It’s a straight shot from here to our cabin. With four houses between us and it, I see the door swing open. Out steps three familiar faces.

  Hope, Mom, and Dad.

  They all come rushing down the stairs, meeting us at the bottom of the short driveway. It’s evident to them that something has happened. It’s not like we left with two Yukons and Andy, Cooper, and Jerry. My parents greet the newcomers with open arms, especially Andy. We all owe her a debt of gratitude, not just me.

  “Rough day?” Dad asks slyly.

  I’m the last to exit the vehicles, and when I do, Hope shrieks in delight when she’s tackled by her gift.

  “Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Jill says. She kneels and rubs the dog’s belly.

  I give my folks a playful wink. Dad doesn’t look so sure, but nevertheless, he bends down and gives the pup a pat. Mom just stands there and smiles wide. Then, she sees the shape we’re all in.

  “Come on inside,” she says, waving us forward. “Let me take a look at you all.”

  Hope, me, and the newest Moon are the last three to head indoors. Even in his weakened state, the puppy is loving on Hope to no degree. Her giggles and squeals are too much for him. He reacts by playfully barking, the sound echoing around us.

  Off to our right, I hear the shrubs lining the neighboring house shift. I draw my pistol and creep forward, stopping after only a couple of steps. Something, I’m not sure exactly what, is crouching in the shadows between the flora and the house. I don’t care what it is at this point, Unseen or not. Regardless, it shouldn’t be here.

  Slowly, I increase the pressure on the trigger but stop when the naturally protective German Shepherd lets out a couple of deep, guttural growls. Head low, he steps in front of Hope and me. Impressively, he lets loose a series of ferocious barks.

  The animal—the damn mountain lion—shrieks and bolts in the opposite direction, disappearing behind the other cabin. This is the second time the big cat has shown up when Hope has been outside.

  I look down at the dog, and then at Hope, and smile. She’s found a new friend—one that’s willing to protect her even though they just met. I witness as he instantly transforms from protector back into playful pooch. His right ear flops to the side as his head does. Then, he barks again, very happy with himself.

  “Good boy,” Hope says, giving him a kiss on the nose.

  He licks her face before she can back away, getting a laugh out of both of us.

  I agree.

  Good boy.

  * * *

  Christmas came and went without a hitch…or a shot fired. No one did anything special for it, except Cooper. Early that morning, he took his Yukon and left Sanctuary without telling anyone where he was going or what he was doing. He and Andy decided to bunk together until her broken arm healed. I think it’s really because they feel something for each other and want to be close to one another.

  Friendships can quickly turn into something else in a time like this. Companionship is incredibly essential when all you feel is sorrow, guilt, and regret. You don’t
let go of those you care for.

  Jerry took it upon himself to watch after the Terhorsts. After hearing that they were alone in their house, he offered his services to Coni and the kids. Coni teared up at his gracious offer. So did Kennedy. She might actually be able to sleep in her own bed from now on, knowing that someone of Jerry’s ilk is in the next room.

  As we get breakfast going, I hear the telltale roar of the Yukon’s V8 rumbling out front. Every one of us—all of Sanctuary—met for Christmas breakfast at our place. We were about to sit down to eat, but we all head for the door instead. Even Crash, the German Shepherd, joins us.

  “His name is Crash,” Hope said earlier this morning.

  After cleaning the pup up and getting him fed, he fell asleep at Hope’s feet upstairs, tucked up against her legs. It was one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen. Both looked so happy lying there together.

  “Crash?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yep… When we play, he crashes into everything!”

  Come to think of it, I did hear them making a racket upstairs before going to bed. I have yet to check on the state of her room, but I’m going to go ahead and assume it’s a disaster thanks to Crash—Hope too.

  And I could care less. She’s happy, so I’m happy.

  Instead of parking his SUV in front of my house, Cooper rounds the small cul-de-sac and stops in front of the place to the left of my house, which is now Cooper and Andy's place. He waves and pulls a box out of the trunk. I can’t see what he’s up to, but he sure looks happy with himself.

  “It’s a surprise!” he shouts, grinning like an idiot.

  We find out later that night when we meet again for dinner. He refused to talk about it when we sat down for breakfast. He said it would be worth the wait.

  After dinner, Cooper shouts at us from outside in the backyard. “Alright, come outside! It’s ready!”

  Everyone looks at each other with unsure glances, but we all comply. Stuffed, and with nothing else to do before bed, everyone shuffles outdoors. At first, all I see is Cooper. Then, my eyes light up when my new bestie steps aside.

  “Merry Christmas!”

  There, half-buried in the gentle snowfall, are two twenty-four packs of Yuengling. It’s his gift to us. It’s a simple gesture, and one that shouldn’t mean so much, but it does. It reminds everybody of the way things used to be. That’s what I feel, anyway. I think I even lick my lips…

  They brews are already chilled from the icy temperature outside, ready to be consumed. All the adults, me, Jill, Mom, Dad, Andy, Cooper, Jerry, and Coni from next door, grab a can and pop the tops.

  Before we greedily drain them, I raise my beer up in remembrance—in memoriam. Even Hope and Kennedy do the same with their juice boxes. It’s an adorable gesture. Crash just sits in between them, tongue hanging out of his mouth. His eyes dart from person to person, curious as ever.

  “To those we’ve lost,” I say.

  “To those we’ve lost,” everyone repeats.

  I close my eyes and continue. “Your sacrifices will never be forgotten.” Tears streak down my cheeks. “We…” I take a breath and collect myself. “We live on in memory of you.”

  I open my eyes and wipe them. Jill looks at me and gives me a warm smile. So do my parents and my friends.

  Raising my drink higher, I make eye contact with the four newcomers, Crash included. “Cheers. Welcome to the family!”

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MATT JAMES is the international bestselling author of over twenty action-packed titles (published in multiple languages).

  He’s responsible for such thrillers as the intense DEAD MOON post-apocalyptic series, SUB-ZERO, DARK ISLAND, THE DRAGON, PLAGUE, and BLOOD AND SAND. Matt has also partnered with USA Today bestselling author, David Wood. Together, they’ve released three stories within David’s popular, globe-trotting Dane Maddock Adventures (BERSERK, SKIN AND BONES, and VENOM).

  He lives in Wellington, Florida with his wife and daughters, enjoying the work of novelists Jeremy Robinson, James Rollins, Greig Beck, Matthew Reilly, Ernest Dempsey, and Nicholas Sansbury Smith (among others).

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  Copyright © 2019 Matt James

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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