by Jeff Zentner
“So, I have some good news too, I guess. A little more of a plan for when I graduate,” Dill said.
Lydia raised her eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Tell me.”
“Trav and I are going to rent a place together and be roommates. We’re both superexcited. He’ll write stories and I’ll write songs. And our lame dads won’t be allowed.”
Lydia tilted her head and smiled. “That sounds awesome. A tiny bohemian artists’ colony right here in Forrestville.”
Dill grew more animated. As if trying to persuade Lydia that it really was awesome, which was what he was doing. As if trying to persuade himself, which was what he was doing. “We’re planning on having Friday-night movie nights still. We thought maybe you could join us sometimes on video chat. Not every time, because obviously you’ll be busy.”
“I would sincerely be honored.” After a while she said, “Is this what you want, Dill?”
“It’s as close as I’m going to get,” he said, after a moment’s reflection.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you—that you be happy and live the life you want to live. I thought you’d need to leave here to do that, but maybe not.”
“Maybe not.”
And Dill realized that maybe he wasn’t so easy to read. If he were, Lydia would have asked him why he looked as though he felt like his heart was being pulled from his chest, fiber by fiber, cell by cell, molecule by molecule. And instead of killing him, it only hollowed him out.
Raynar Northbrook perched atop the isolated redoubt, keeping his lone vigil by the river. If any scouts of Rand Allastair’s came this way, they would meet a fiercer foe than they had anticipated. There were others who could and gladly would sit at this lonesome post in his place, but he did not ask of his men that which he was unwilling to do himself. And they loved him for it.
Travis sat on top of the remnants of his firewood. It didn’t seem like it would be a great spot—it was right by the river and not especially close to any houses or businesses. But Lamar recommended it, and he was right.
How’s the firewood selling? Amelia texted.
Pretty good night, especially after Doc B bought so much. Few more nights like this and I can afford a new laptop, Travis replied.
When do I get to read the story you wrote?
LOL once Lydia tells me what I need to fix. I want you to see the best version.
I bet it’s great already. You’re so smart.
Aw thank you. Hey I just got an idea.
TELL ME.
When Deathstorm comes out, we should meet in between where we live and read it together!!
I LOVE THAT IDEA!!!!!
Ok we’ll do it!! We can get blankets and lie in the back of my truck and read with flashlights.
PERFECT!! OMG CAN’T WAIT!!!
Travis shivered and thought about closing up shop, but he wasn’t sleepy yet, and sleeping was about all he could do when he sneaked into Dill’s house each night. Not a word had passed between him and his father at work. His father certainly hadn’t invited him home—not that he would have accepted such an invitation. He talked with his mom regularly when he went by to pick up food while his father was out. He didn’t tell her where he slept, but he assured her—on his honor—that it was in a safe, warm place.
The other reason Travis saw no reason to close up yet was that he was reading Nightwinds, the fifth book in the Bloodfall series, by flashlight. He’d managed to reread Bloodfall, Raventhrone, Swordfall, and Wolfrun in time to put away Nightwinds before Deathstorm came out in March. And that was even with starting his writing career.
His phone buzzed. A text from Lydia. Have big news. Tell you when I see you.
Hope it’s that you gave my story to G. M. Pennington’s agent and they want to publish it LOL, he texted back.
A set of headlights in the distance. An older model white Nissan Maxima slowed and pulled up behind Travis’s pickup. He set down his book, clicked off his flashlight, and hopped down. Two men got out of the Maxima. Travis didn’t recognize either of them; they were both wearing hoods that obscured their faces.
“Hey, gentlemen,” Travis said. “Get you some firewood on this chilly night?”
One of the men hung behind a little bit. The other stepped forward. “Yeah, man. How much?”
“Small bundle’s five dollars, big bundle’s ten. Cut you a deal on the whole rest of what I got if you’re interested.”
“Lemme think about it, bro.” Something about the man seemed strange. He had a nervous, jittery energy.
The man who hung back joined his compatriot. “We’ll take a large,” he said.
“Okay.” Travis rummaged in his pickup bed for a nice large bundle.
When he turned around, the man pointed a gun at him. “Gimme your money, bro. Hurry your ass up. All your cash.”
Travis’s heart began pounding. His mouth went dry. His legs felt rubbery beneath him. He raised his hands. “Okay, okay, okay. No problem. No problem. Just take whatever.” He handed over his wallet.
The man seemed even more nervous and jittery than the first man Travis had spoken to. “What you got in the truck?”
Travis opened the cab door. He reached for his zipper pouch on the floorboard, where he kept most of his firewood earnings for the night. It was wedged under his staff. He picked up his staff to move it out of the way.
He heard a deafening crack and simultaneously felt a sledgehammer blow to his ribs. It knocked him into the doorframe.
“Shit, dude! Why’d you shoot him?” the other man screamed. “Come on, we gotta move.”
The man who shot Travis yanked the zipper pouch from his hand. The two men dashed to the Maxima, jumped in, and screeched away. Travis watched their taillights disappear over the rise. His brain told him that he should have gotten the license plate number, but it was too late.
He managed to stay standing, but gripped the door of his truck for support. He didn’t feel well at all. He couldn’t feel his legs or arms. His face was numb. His heart was working too hard. He couldn’t breathe. He had a coppery taste in his mouth. He was suddenly thirsty. And cold. He began to shiver uncontrollably.
He didn’t think he could drive and decided to try to flag down a car. His legs failed him so he crawled toward the road, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his phone. He dropped it in front of him and dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“I think someone shot me.”
“All right sir, what is your location?”
“River Road. Is my mom there?”
“Okay, River Road. Can you tell me where exactly on River Road?”
“East of the bridge. I’m thirsty. Is my mom there?”
“Sir, I’ve got units heading your way right now, okay? I need you to stay with me. What’s your name?”
“Travis Bohannon. Is my mom there?”
“Travis, hang in there with me. We’ll try to get your mom. I need you to keep talking to me.”
“I need some water. I need some water. Can’t breathe.”
“Keep talking to me, Travis. Travis. Travis? Travis? Travis? Hang in there with me, Travis. Can you talk to me? Travis?”
Some fall in glorious ways. On green fields of battle as old warriors, surrounded by friends, fighting for their homes, fighting cruelty.
Some fall crawling in the dirt of Forrestville, Tennessee, in the dark, impossibly young and alone, for no good reason at all.
“I feel bad Travis’s not finding out the same time as me,” Dill said.
“Do you know where he is?” Lydia asked.
“He mentioned River Road.”
“Well, there aren’t that many places he could be. Here.” Lydia handed Dill her phone while she drove. “Text him. Find out where he is.”
Dill texted him. No response. Tried calling. Nothing.
“He texted me earlier. Maybe he ran out of battery,” Lydia said.
“He never runs out of battery.”
“Not in the pre-Amelia days.”
“Excellent point. Let’s drive River Road for a while. I don’t have to be home yet.”
“Maybe we can help him sell firewood,” Lydia said. “I can show some leg.”
“Yeah, but then people would stop to buy firewood and get a lecture about objectifying women.”
“So?” She turned onto River Road and drove a short distance before coming around a bend to see a wall of flashing blue lights. Forrestville police, White County sheriff. She slowed. “Oh wow,” she murmured. “Maybe someone had an accident.”
Dill craned to see. “Hope it wasn’t Trav.”
They neared. An officer stood in the road, wearing a reflective vest. He directed Lydia around the scene. A camera flashed.
Then they were able to see past the wall of flashing lights.
“Dill…is that Travis’s truck?” Lydia said, a rising alarm in her voice.
Dill squinted through the glare. He couldn’t discern the color of the truck with all the blue light. Another camera flash. Red. He felt a surge of adrenaline and dark dread. “Oh shit. Oh please, Jesus, no. No no no no no no no no no no no no. Lydia, stop.”
She stopped in the middle of the road. They jumped out and ran to the officer directing traffic. He didn’t look much older than them.
“Miss, I’m going to need you to move your car,” he said.
Lydia’s voice trembled. “Officer, this is our friend’s truck. Can you please tell us what happened?”
“Miss, I can’t at this time. There’s been a situation out here. I don’t know what information the family has yet so I’m not at liberty to say.”
Lydia fought tears, frantic and despondent. “Officer, please. I’m begging you.”
“Miss, I am sincerely sorry. I can’t give you any more information at this time. I apologize.”
Lydia broke down.
“Please,” Dill said, also starting to lose composure. “Please tell us where he is.”
The young officer had a pained expression. He glanced from side to side. His fellow officers were putting up crime scene tape. An officer took a photo of a bloodstain on the pavement.
The officer leaned in close. “County.”
They didn’t even stick around long enough to thank the officer. They tore away.
They drove in deathly silence. The engine whined as Lydia pushed it, going twice the speed limit most of the way.
Please God. Please God. Please let him be okay.
They squealed up to the hospital, parked haphazardly, and bolted inside.
Time seemed to slow for Dill as he looked around the garishly lit emergency room. There was a strange disconnect between what he saw and the way his mind processed it—or rather, didn’t process it.
Travis’s father, sitting in a corner, beating the sides of his head with his fists and weeping, two police officers standing next to him, looking uncomfortable.
Travis’s mom, lying on the floor, sobbing, three nurses stroking her back and trying to comfort her.
Something broke loose inside Dill’s mind. Something that had been moored against the roaring tumult. It came untethered and crashed around with reckless abandon—burning, shattering, consuming. He stopped seeing color and all became a swirling, howling, leaden gray desolation. But the pain hadn’t arrived. The way the sea recedes before a tsunami, so every part of him receded. And then the pain struck.
Dill had never manifested the gift of tongues. The Holy Spirit had never moved in him that way, just as it had never permitted him to take up the deadly serpent. But on the floor of White County Hospital, he screamed in some anguished and alien language of bereavement. He was unaware that Lydia knelt beside him, gripping his arm like she would plummet off the Earth if she let go, doing the same.
His mother’s tone was sharp when he finally walked in. “Where were you?” But when she saw his eyes, his face, her tone became guarded concern. “Dillard? What’s the matter?”
He already loathed the words, and he hadn’t actually spoken them aloud to anybody. As if they were some terrible incantation that made it more real. They felt like thorns on his tongue. “Travis is dead.”
“You don’t mean your friend Travis do you? Bohannon?”
He sat and put his head in his hands. He stared at the kitchen table. Numb. “Yes.”
Dill’s mom gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Sweet merciful Jesus,” she whispered. “Poor Anne Marie. What happened?”
Dill shook his head.
“Was…he saved?”
Dill expected the question and still had to think about how exactly to answer. “He had his salvation.”
“I have news,” Lydia said as Dill climbed her porch steps. “Let’s sit down.”
Lydia’s porch swing creaked as they swung slowly. “They caught the guys who did it,” Lydia said. “My dad heard about it from one of his patients who works for the sheriff’s department.”
“Are you serious?” Dill asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s only been three days.”
“Yeah. Seems like longer.”
“I know.”
“Do they know what happened?” Dill asked.
“Two asshole idiot meth heads were at a party in Cookeville. They wanted to score some meth, but they didn’t have money. One of them saw Travis selling firewood when he went to visit his grandma earlier. So he went ‘I’ve got an idea where we can get some quick cash.’ ”
“But why did they shoot him?”
“When they caught the guys, it turned out they barely knew each other. They’d met that night. They didn’t even know each other’s last names. So the one who didn’t do the shooting immediately snitched on the one who did. He said that as they were driving away, the shooter guy said that he shot Travis because he thought Travis was grabbing for a stick or a baseball bat.”
“The staff.”
“Yeah,” Lydia said. “They killed our friend for one hundred and twenty-three dollars.” Even saying the words wounded her. They killed our friend. The phrase was a bright, sharp pang, ringing through the white noise humming in her brain.
“I hope they burn in hell. Forever.”
“Me too. And I hope they do it with a case of poison ivy on the inside of their skin.” Lydia knew she could muster contempt for people she despised. But she surprised even herself with how much she wanted misfortune to befall Travis’s killers.
It was unseasonably warm for February. Birds were singing that they usually didn’t hear until later in the spring. Lydia wore a simple black dress. Dill wore a cheap black suit that had belonged to his father. It fit him poorly, but not as poorly as it would have had Lydia not made some hasty alterations. They swung for a while without speaking. They sat with their legs touching, as if to remind each other that they were there.
“I haven’t been sleeping,” Dill said. Not that he needed to say it. His face showed more than he could ever reveal in words.
“Me neither. Maybe ten hours in the last three days.” Not that she needed to say it either.
“Every time I start to drift off to sleep, I remember. And it jerks me awake.”
“The few times I have been able to sleep, there’s about ten seconds when I first wake up that I don’t remember. Then I remember. So I guess I’ve spent maybe forty seconds not thinking about it.”
“I can’t see myself ever feeling completely right again. The way I did before.”
“Me neither.” Lydia sighed and looked at her phone. “We should probably go.”
“I really don’t want to.”
“Me neither.”
“I mean, I want to be there for him. I just don’t want to be going to a funeral for Travis.”
“I know.”
They got up and began walking. The funeral home was barely two blocks away. As they walked, Lydia worried about what would become of Dill. As soon as the numbness wore off, that’s what would replace it—concern. Guilt over leaving Dill behind. Alone. Without a plan. Without backup. Without direction. Lo
st. Adrift.
When they arrived at the funeral home, they stood outside for a moment, gathering their strength to go inside. “Let’s wait until my mom and dad get here,” Lydia said.
While they waited, a short, red-haired girl about their age in a black velvet dress arrived alone. She was crying.
Dill leaned in close to Lydia. “I think that’s Amelia. Travis showed me a picture of her one night while he was staying with me.”
“Travis was staying with you?”
“Yeah. I guess it’s safe to tell you now. His dad beat him up the night he met G. M. Pennington and kicked him out. He tried to rip up his book, but Travis fought for it and won. He didn’t want you to know because he was afraid you’d call the cops on his dad.”
Lydia’s face took on a grim cast. “He was right. I would have.”
“We should say something to her in case it is Amelia. Travis was pretty crazy about her.”
They approached her awkwardly.
“Are you Amelia?” Lydia asked.
Amelia looked surprised to be recognized. “Yeah…are you guys Lydia and Dill?”
“Yes,” Lydia said. “Nice to meet you. We heard good things. How did you know to come?”
“The police got in touch with me. I was one of the last people he talked to before he died.” Amelia wiped her eyes. “The funny thing is that I heard so much about you guys from Travis. And now I’m meeting you before meeting him.” She paused. “I guess it’s not really very funny. But you know what I mean.”
“We do,” Lydia said.
“We were supposed to meet up and read Deathstorm together. We were also going to go to the Renaissance festival. I guess we had a lot of plans.”
“Travis and I were going to get a place together and be roommates after we graduated,” Dill said.
“I was critiquing Travis’s first story,” Lydia said.
“You were the one who made it so that Travis could meet G. M. Pennington. He said that was the best night of his life. Will you send me that story Travis was working on?” Amelia asked.
“Of course.”
They were silent for a moment as they thought about all that died with Travis.