by Sahara Foley
He slammed his shot. Lighting a cigarette, he took a deep drag, staring off into space, reflecting. Christmas. God, how he hated Christmas. Christmas was the day his whole life turned to hell.
Once scientists discovered the principle of teleportation, it wasn't long before mining colonies were popping up around the galaxy. The mining companies became rich and powerful, ruling the governments in place. The only people they couldn't control were the Muslim fanatics. They had their own agenda, to eliminate anyone that didn't believe in their doctrine, which was over half the world's population. But that didn't deter them. As the terrorist attacks intensified, Deak started fearing for the safety of his family.
Deak reached under the bar, retrieving a dog-eared picture. He stared at it with tormented eyes. Feeling tears starting to form, he tossed the picture on top of the bar, and poured himself another shot. He tossed the whiskey down his throat, feeling it burn all the way to his stomach, where the alcohol spread to his scarred heart, numbing the pain. With blurry eyes, he gazed at the picture of a pretty, blonde-haired woman holding a brown, tousled-haired three-year-old boy. They were smiling, love radiating from their eyes. Kat and Tyler. His wife and son.
Hearing a scraping of chairs and the shuffling of feet, Deak looked up to see the three stragglers making their way to the underground tunnel.
Mike stopped in front of Deak, hunched shouldered. “If'n you ain't got anywhere to go tomorrow, you can always come over for Christmas dinner. You know Lucille makes enough to feed the whole damn colony.” Each year, he extended the invitation, and each year, Deak declined.
“No, old man,” Deak replied, shaking his head. “But thanks anyway. You enjoy yourself a good meal. You look like you could use one.”
Mike held out his hand. “Merry Christmas, Deak. Don't let life get you down, there's always tomorrow.”
Deak stared at Mike's hand in surprise. He'd never offered him a handshake before. Was it that obvious what he was planning to do? He clasped Mike's hand in a firm grip. “No worries, old man. You have yourself a Merry Christmas.”
Deak followed them to the tunnel entrance, locking the door behind them. He heard the stomping of their feet on the metal steps, as they descended to the living quarters. He started picking up used mugs and dirty ash trays, depositing them in the sink under the bar. Not that it mattered, but after twelve years of owning a bar, it was second nature.
Finished, he sat on his stool, poured another shot, and lit a cigarette. Alone at last, he picked up the picture with trembling fingers. If only, he thought with a sad sigh. If only he hadn't decided to move to this hellhole of a planet. Not that Earth wasn't much better. The fanatics had gotten so bad, terrorist attacks were almost an everyday event. You never knew where a bomb would go off, at a school, a park, a grocery store, hell, even a wedding. People started looking at everyone carrying packages or backpacks with distrust. No one felt safe, and the government officials couldn't do a damn thing.
With each atrocious attack, more liberties were taken away, supposedly to protect the citizens. But Deak had seen war. He knew it was all a scam, a lie. The only people the new laws and regulations helped were the terrorists. The Islamic fanatics didn't give a shit. Anyone that didn't follow their doctrine were dead to them, a new target.
Deak downed his shot, slamming the glass back on the counter, putting another dent in the old, worn wood. There were already dozens of dents, circles overlaying circles, too many to count.
It was the fear for the safety of his wife and son that made him buy this bar on Colony 52. He had to get them away from the insanity. Mining colonies usually attracted a bad element of humanity, people running from a not so decent past. So Deak had come out here first, to test the waters, setup shop, and get himself acclimated to a new life on a different planet. The move hadn't been easy. He missed his wife and child. But he found most of the people fleeing to the mining colonies were just like him, trying to save their loved ones from the blood and tears on Earth. Some of the fanatics had infiltrated the colonies, but they didn't last long. They were either shipped back home or killed in a mining accident. Usually the latter.
A gust of wind hit the front of the bar, making the window and door rattle. Deak looked up, listening. Was that a voice he heard over the wind? He shook his head. Naw, he was just hearing things.
He gazed back at the picture, his thumb lightly stroking the face of his wife. It was his fault. Tears slowly slid into his grizzled, scruffy beard, then dripped onto his wrinkled shirt. He sighed.
With teleportation being so cheap, the mining companies allowed their employees to travel back to Earth on a semi-annual basis. Even though he wasn't a miner, he offered a service for them, so he was allowed to tag along for a small fare. His last trip back had been in September, nine years ago.
Deal smiled through his tears, remembering. They'd been so happy. Kat kept begging him to let them join him. He kept saying he wasn't ready. But after spending a few days with his family, he knew he couldn't live without them any longer, so he relented. They agreed to move in February. Deak gave a sardonic chuckle. How excited Kat had been, her blue eyes sparkling as she made plans for decorating their living quarters over the bar. He picked up the crinkled picture, pressing it against his forehead with cupped hands. God, how he missed her. He took a deep, shuddering breath, tenderly laying the faded picture back on the bar.
He should've known, he berated himself, slamming his fist on top of the bar. He should've known she couldn't wait. That she planned to surprise him.
He picked up his shot glass, flinging it across the room, where it shattered against the far wall into small pieces. He sat there, lungs heaving, face flushed with angry, and tears streaming down his face. With a loud sigh, he stood, striding to the shot glasses on a shelf behind the bar. He picked one up, filled it to overflowing with whatever bottle he grabbed first, then slammed the liquor down his throat. Coughing and sputtering from the rot-gut whiskey, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, hating himself.
He returned to his stool, slumped over, staring down at the faces beaming up at him from the top of the bar. If only Kat had told him, maybe he could've stopped her from taking that fateful trip. But she wanted to surprise him. Give him a Christmas he wouldn't forget. Well, he thought with a heavy sigh, she managed that alright.
His wife and son never made it to the teleportation station. Their bus had exploded on Christmas Day. The Islamic fanatics took credit for the attack. Deak hung his head in mourning. All those innocent lives lost.
When he returned to Earth to handle Kat's affairs, he'd discovered that she'd been three months pregnant with their daughter. Her Christmas present to him. Overwhelmed with grief, Deak buried his head on his crossed arms, hot tears dripping onto the picture of his deceased wife, son, and unborn daughter. They were wrong, he thought, his body shaking with uncontrollable sobbing. The loss was supposed to get easier with the passing years, not harder. Each Christmas Eve, he went through the same ordeal. Rehashing and rehashing the 'what ifs,' or the 'what could I have done.' All the lamenting, self-pity, and wailing in the world would not change the past. They were dead, never to be held again. But this Christmas would be different.
Deak straightened, palming the scalding tears from his eyes, wiping his nose with the back of his arm. Reaching under the bar, he pulled out a Colt .45, laying the hand-gun on the bar with a soft thunk. The gun was an heirloom, passed down from father to son over the generations. A great-grandfather many times over carried the Colt during the Korean War. Ammunition was expense and hard to come by, so Deak had taught himself how to re-load rounds.
For the past eight Christmas Eves, Deak sat on this same stool, softly fondling the Colt's barrel, waiting for the clock to strike midnight, so he could end his unbearable suffering. But each year, something held him back. He wasn't afraid of death as he was looking forward to seeing his family again. The first several years he'd deluded himself into thinking he was needed here. After he moved to t
he colony, he became active in the community. Whenever there was an accident in the mine, he was the first one to help raise funds for the surviving family members.
But the last several years, he'd lost all interest in helping his fellow colonists, and he started to slowly drink himself to death. Each day was the same, whiskey and cigarettes, after which he'd stumble upstairs to fall face down on his unkempt bed, to start the process all over again the next morning. If it weren't for Mike's wife, Lucille, he'd have died of starvation years ago. She always made sure he ate a decent meal at least three times a week.
Deak peered at his slumped reflection in the bar mirror. His ruggedly handsome features were sunken and sharp, with brown, empty, red-rimmed eyes staring back at him. He looked like a teenager wearing his father's clothes, as the shirt and jeans that used to fit snugly over his broad shoulders and muscled chest and legs, now hung like rags.
He glared at the unfamiliar face before him, shaking his head. No, not this year. This year he was going to kill himself. Deak glanced at the clock, 11:58 pm, two minutes to go. He picked up the .45, thumbed off the safety and chambered a round. Gazing down at the tear-drenched picture, he whispered, “I'll see you soon, babe,” then placed the barrel between his teeth, pressing the cold barrel against the roof of his mouth. He gagged as the metallic taste of gun oil assaulted his taste buds. He stared at the clock, as each digital second counted down. The only sounds heard was the wind whistling around the building, and the ragged inhaling and exhaling of his breath through his clamped teeth on the barrel.
Thirty seconds. Deak tightened his grip on the handle. Twenty seconds. He shot one last look at his beloved family. Ten seconds. He took a deep breath and slowly squeezed the trigger.
The door rattled in its frame, a voice crying out, “Help, sir. Please, help me.”
Startled, Deak released the trigger, removing the barrel from his mouth. What the hell? Who'd be outside in this freezing ass cold?
The door rattled again. “Please, sir. I need help.” The voice sounded desperate, with a hint of fear.
How did they even know I'm in here? Deak thought. He glanced up. He'd forgotten to turn off the lights hanging over the bar. Whoever was outside had seen him through the window. “Damn,” he muttered. He looked back at the clock. It was 12:02 am. He'd missed his opportunity. With a sigh, he placed the gun on the counter, shuffling dejectedly to the door.
Peering out the door, Deak couldn't see anyone. He glanced left and right. No one. Hearing something brushing against the outside of the door, he looked down, and saw the top of someone's blanket-wrapped head. Whoever it was looked up, and Deak found himself staring at a young child, possibly a girl.
He fumbled with the lock, then flung the door open. As the shivering child tumbled into his arms, the rough, gray blanket fell away, revealing a girl, with long, tangled, blonde hair.
“My baby,” she pleaded through chattering teeth and blue lips, “please help my baby.”
Deak swept her up in his arms, kicking the door closed, then hurried to the bar, where he deposited the girl onto a bar stool. He looked her over. What baby? She wasn't carrying a baby, unless it was bundled under the multiple layers of clothing she wore. Maybe the baby was still outside. He rushed to the door flinging it open again, and started frantically searching around the doorway and the outside of his building. The only thing he found was trash pinned to the side of the building from the howling, freezing wind.
Teeth chattering, Deak stepped back inside, slamming and locking the door. Rubbing his arms to get the feeling back in them, he strode back to where the girl sat, hunched over, softly moaning.
With a quirked brow, he studied the ragged figure, as she rocked back and forth on the seat. She was wearing several layers of men's pants and shirts, many sizes too large, making her look small and defenseless. She was clutching her stomach, as she swayed back and forth, a stomach that seemed larger than it should be for her slight frame.
Oh my God, Deak thought, eyes widening in understanding. She's pregnant. As the child hunched over even farther, screaming in pain, he knew she was in labor. He shook his head, confused. Why was the poor girl out in the bitter cold while in labor? Why didn't she go home? It made no sense. He mentally shook himself. The 'why' and 'what for' didn't matter right now. She needed help.
He knelt beside her. “What's your name, honey?” he asked softly.
“Ca … Ca … Cassie,” she managed to say through clattering teeth and moans of pain.
“Okay, Cassie. How long have you been in labor?”
“Not … not … sure. Maybe … maybe … two hours.”
Deak sat back on his heels. Two hours. Was that good or bad? How much longer did she have to go before the baby was born? Kat's labor had taken ten hours. But it was her first baby. He'd heard that women were in longer labor with their first child. He studied Cassie again. She looked to be fifteen or sixteen-years-old. This was most likely her first baby, so he should have plenty of time to get her help, and contact her family.
“Listen, Cassie. I know nothing about delivering a baby, so I'm going to call for help. What's your husband's name? I'm sure he's worried to death about you.”
She reached out, grabbing his arm in a tight grip, eyes wide with fright. “No.” Cassie took a deep breath. “He … will … kill … my … baby.”
Deak stared at her pale hand, amazed at the strength of her grip and the cold radiating from her body. Another ten minutes and she would've succumbed to the cold, another frozen body to be found in the morning.
“Please,” the girl whispered. “Help … my … baby.”
Deak gazed into Cassie's pleading blue eyes, eyes that reflected more hardship than a girl her age should know. What the hell had happened to the poor child? Deak shook his head. There's no way a man would harm his own baby. He'd kill, just to get his children back from Death's doorstep.
“Look, Cassie. You're frightened, and in a lot of pain. Whatever happened between you and your husband was probably a misunderstanding. I'm sure he doesn't mean to harm his own child. Just tell me his name.”
Cassie bit her lip, and closed her eyes, struggling against the pain. When they reopened, they were filled with determination. “Not husband. He has killed babies before.”
What the hell is she talking about? Deak swallowed, looking away from Cassie's intense gaze. He didn't want to get involved. He had his own problems to deal with. But the conscience he'd drowned in whiskey bottles over the years, reared its head.
What if instead of Kat dying in the exploding bus, she'd survived and been left bleeding, hurt, in labor, and scared? Would someone have helped her? Would he have been upset if someone hadn't helped, and their baby died because no one cared? Should he expect any less from himself? Deak peered back up at Cassie, her pale face etched in lines of pain. She did remind him of Kat, with her blonde hair, blue eyes and heart-shaped face. With a heavy sigh, he nodded, as one layer of scars around his heart began to soften.
“Okay, I'll help you. I don't know how to deliver a baby, but I do know a midwife. She's not that far into the tunnels. I'll go fetch her in a minute, but I need to go upstairs first. I'll be right back.”
As he stood to leave, Cassie screamed, bending over in pain from another contraction. She was breathing hard, fighting against the pain.
Deak took Cassie's hand. “No, Cassie, don't fight it. Let the contraction run its course. Look at me. C'mon, look at me.” Cassie's pain-filled eyes fastened onto his. “Now, breathe with me.” He started to pant in short, regular bursts, amazed he remembered this procedure after so many years. Cassie began panting in the same rhythm, their eyes locked, hands clasped together. Once the contraction passed, Cassie collapsed against the stool, her white face shiny with sweat.
The poor girl looks exhausted already, and she hasn't even begun the actual delivery yet. Maybe there's something wrong with the baby. A niggle of fear touched Deak's heart. He sprang up, and rushed upstairs to his living quarters. T
he only place he had to lay her on was his bed. The same bed he hadn't put fresh sheets on in how many weeks, or was it months? He couldn't remember. All he knew was it stunk.
Rushing around his living quarters, frantically searching from closet to closet for the clean sheets, he began noticing his apartment. When was the last time he'd cleaned? There were cobwebs and dust everywhere. Why did he throw his dirty clothes in the corners? Is that why he was wearing these same smelly shirt and jeans? He shook his head in disgust. No wonder Mike and Lucille had been looking at him with concern. He'd been living like a slob.
Pulling open a drawer, he found a spare set of sheets. He stripped his sweat-stained sheets form the bed, and began putting on the clean ones. If Cassie hadn't knocked on the door, none of this would've mattered anyway. He'd already be dead. Then why is there a small part of myself that's glad she did? Maybe he wasn't as ready to meet his family as he thought. Maybe there was more to life than a whiskey bottle and self-pity.
Finished, he stood, looking around his quarters at the filth that had accumulated over the years. He hadn't been raised to be a slob. Even before he met Kat, he'd always kept a clean apartment. Deak hung his head, ashamed. Kat would be so angry with him. He'd given into his grief, instead of trying to live past it. Kat wouldn't have wanted him to take his life, just to be with them. When his turn came to meet Death, his family would still be waiting for him. Why hadn't he understood this before?
A muffled scream resounded up the stairwell, snapping Deak out of his self-revelation. He rushed downstairs, over to where Cassie was hunched over with another contraction. When was her last contraction? He slapped his forehead. He hadn't taken note of the last one, but they seemed to be closer than they should be. At least he thought so.
He knelt beside Cassie; refocusing her on the breathing technique he'd been taught over fourteen years ago. Once the contraction had ended, Cassie's wet, blonde hair was plastered to her gaunt, pasty-white face. Deak swallowed. Something was definitely wrong; she didn't look well at all.