by Reece Hinze
He turned to make sure his mother was ok and then turned back and looked directly at Jacob. “If that dog dies, I’ll kill all four of yours in turn,” he growled and then turned and walked away. “Have a good night Atwoods,” he said. “We will see you bright and earlier in the morning.”
Momma raised her big hands in the air, “Lord, we sure are sorry about that.”
No one answered her. Bridgett held her whimpering dog and cried silently.
“Bobby, lock them doors and come on now,” Momma said.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Wade replied stiffly. Bobby, clad in his blue mechanic’s uniform shuffled from foot to foot, unsure who to listen to.
“Bobby, lock them doors.”
Wade and Clifford gave each other a sideways glance. Richard shrugged, lit up another one of Momma’s cigarettes, and escorted their guests to their lodgings in the barn.
Wade joined his brother and mother. “You look pretty good for having a dog fight right on top of you,” he said with a smile. Anne’s hair was disheveled and her clothes were dusty but she was fine.
“I guess I have poor Sophie to thank for that,” she said, leaning down to pet the injured dog. She took Bridgett’s arm. “Come on, let’s get her inside dear.”
The big dog whimpered as the boys lifted her inside. Anne laid out a pile of bathroom towels and she and Bridgett cleaned her wounds while Luke and Wade carried the heavy stacks of food to the basement. After making sure the Atwoods were put away for the evening, Clifford returned to the house with Victoria on his arm. Anne summoned everyone to the living room.
Wade started the conversation. “We found them on the road today, Mom. They were clearing out an eighteen wheeler full of food. It almost got ugly but in the name of peace, I invited them back. I’m sorry.”
Anne, waved the apology away, and stared at Bridgett who sat on the old hardwood floors petting the sleeping Sophie, covered in fresh bandages.
“That Momma dern sure wanted to keep their vehicle locked,” Clifford mumbled.
Luke nodded. “They put as much food as they could in there, at least as much as us. At first light, we should take one of the busses and take everything else in that trailer, before the Atwoods leave and do just that.”
It was Wade’s turn to nod agreement. “You’re right bro. Between all of us, we should be able to clear it out by noon.” Wade paused for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face. He turned to his mother. “Speaking of all of us, where are Paul and Dad?”
“I assumed they were by the barn, cleaning the deer they hunted,” Anne said alarmed. “They aren’t there?” She stood up. “Oh my God.”
It was pitch dark outside. “Shit,” Wade said, forgetting his politeness for a moment. “Mom, find us some flashlights. Luke, grab the rifles.”
“Wade,” Luke said.
“Clifford, go grab Richard.”
“Wade,” Luke repeated.
“We go in two groups. I’ll head down the main trail and…”
“Wade,” Luke raised his voice.
“What?” Wade replied, harsher than he meant it.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Luke said patiently. “The woods are a lot different than the street. We could get lost or hurt just as easily as we could find them.”
“We grew up in those woods!” Wade said, red in the face.
“I know that,” Luke continued. “But you know as well as I do that the woods are different at night. What do you want to do? Run through the woods with flashlights shouting their names?”
“Fuckin’ A right I do.”
“Wade,” Anne scolded her son’s language.
“And what about the infected?” Luke asked. “Don’t you think we might find them too? You saw how many were running after Bridgett and we only took out a fraction of those. We have to wait until sunrise.”
Wade paused for a moment, knowing his brother was right. He looked to Mr. Worsby, who sipped the on Anne’s tea and nodded, and then to his mother. “Fine,” he said. “But we leave at the crack of dawn.”
“Agreed,” Luke said. He looked down at the floor where Bridgett stroked her dog’s big belly, seemingly oblivious to the debate around her. He stood. “Well, we better try to get some sleep then before we go.”
Anne tiredly waved him back into his seat. “Boys, there is something you should know,” she said. “I know that boy.”
“The dog whisperer?” Wade asked surprised.
“Yes,” Anne said. “He was a student of mine a few years ago.” The room was silent with disbelief. Somewhere outside a cricket strummed a lonely tune. Far away, a coyote howled at the moon. She looked at the floor, cradling her untouched cup of tea in her hands. “His name is Jacob Atwood. He was brought into my class in the middle of the school year for a few hours a day. He was labeled E.D. and…”
“E.D.?” Bridgett asked, speaking for the first time. She never took her eyes off of her dog, as she stroked her stomach softly.
“Emotionally disturbed,” Anne said. “At that time, the politicians believed integrating E.D. kids into normal classrooms a few hours a day would help their development.” She smiled sadly. “They never considered the effect that would have on the other kids. Jacob never spoke to anyone. He lacked any sense of personal hygiene and showed no social skills whatsoever. He lasted less than a month before he was permanently removed from my class and from the school all together.”
“What happened?” Bridgett asked, looking up at Anne.
“He stabbed a pencil into a boy’s cheek. As far as I could tell the poor boy was just trying to be nice to him.” Anne paused for a moment to look out the window. “Only later did I learn about Jacob’s home life. I met a friend of mine, who was Jacob’s social worker, for lunch one day. She told me Jacob was locked in a basement until he was almost eight years old. He was fed food underneath the door like a prisoner and went to the bathroom in a bucket. He had only a dog for company in those early years and was consistently beaten. I have no idea how his family got him back after the state took him.” She looked around the room. “She told me of a timid father figure but there was never a mother in the picture. Only a large boisterous grandmother.” She paused to let everyone draw their own conclusions. “That boy is dangerous,” she said. “I don’t want him or his family staying here.”
No one spoke. Anne reached down to run her fingers through Bridgett’s hair. “I’m going to bed now.” She looked at her sons in turn. “At dawn, you bring back your Dad and your brother.”
The two remaining Slaughter sons exchanged glances. “We will find them Mom,” Luke said. Anne was already heading out of the room.
Mr. Clifford Worsby stayed even after everyone left. He sipped his tea and stared out the black window, waiting for dawn.
Chapter XIV: One Under On the Back Nine
The first glimmers of the morning sunlight peeked through the shifting tree limbs to awaken a startled Paul Slaughter. His head throbbed. He sucked in a labored breath. It was difficult. His chest felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. He opened his eyes, slowly at first for his head felt as though it might explode, and saw a steady red drip pounding a fledgling bluebonnet. Paul's glasses lay askew on his nose. He tried to set them straight but he couldn’t move his arm.
A confused Paul glanced upward to discover the source of the dripping liquid. To Paul’s horror, the big bear man, now very dead, lay on top of him. Dark blood, swirling with the unknown virus that drove him insane, trickled down the big man’s bulging forehead and nose to pool in his thick beard. The filthy mat of hair acted like a sponge overflowing with liquid. The dark blood ran down a wiry spindle of beard and dripped on a bluebonnet mere inches from Paul’s face. All this he saw in an instant.
Disgusted, Paul wrenched and struggled to free himself from the weight of the behemoth. He pushed the giant man off of him and gagged for his stench was overwhelming. He gasped for air and stood warily, adjusting his big black glasses. “Rest in peace you fat fuck,�
� he said before spitting at the great heap of overalls beside him.
There was a chorus of woodland creatures milling about in the morning sunshine. A squirrel chittered noisily at a hummingbird flying nearby. Dozens of hidden songbirds chirped happily at the new day. A tiny rabbit nibbled tenderly on a plant, saw Paul, and skittered away. It was a beautiful day. For the briefest moment, he had forgotten completely that the world had ended.
“Paul,” a weak voice called out from further up the creek bank.
“Dad!” Paul shouted, already running.
When he reached his father’s side, his breath caught in his throat. “Dad,” Paul said softly, bending down over his father. Tim Slaughter was pale. His eyes were sunken and withdrawn. He lay in the same position Paul left him in earlier in the night.
“Son…” Tim said.
“Don’t speak,” Paul said. He waved away a fly crawling on the sticky tree limb which impaled his father’s shoulder. He ripped away a section of his father’s fishing shirt to reveal the festering and grotesque wound. “Oh God,” Paul whispered.
“I forgive you son,” Tim said, barely audible.
“What?” Paul asked, taken aback.
“I forgive you,” he repeated, staring into his son’s eyes.
Paul bristled at his father’s words. He opened his mouth and closed it without saying a word.
“Now,” His father gasped. “Will you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” Paul asked. An overflow of emotions broke free from the long locked cage he had forced them into. “Forgive you? There is nothing to forgive Dad.”
Paul watched his father close his eyes. A tear ran down his cheek. “I pushed you too hard to be what you weren’t. I forced you down the road you took. What happened with Luke, everything, it’s my fault and… I’m sorry.”
Paul, with eyes misting, gently lay his tattooed hand on his father. “What happened with Luke was not your fault. That sin is on me and I regret it with every breath I take.”
Tim gently shook his head but Paul continued. “Yes Dad,” he said. “I was the one who did the drinking and did the drugs until my mind was gone. I was the one who gave him that gun and…” Paul stopped, overwhelmed with emotion. He felt his father lay a weak hand over his own. “I did the time but that doesn’t even begin to make up for what I put my brother through.”
Tim patted his son’s hand and looked into his eyes again. “Son, if I could have one wish before I die, it’s that you two become as close as you once were. You must become brothers again. In this world we rarely find second chances but you have been graced by exactly that. You apologize to Luke, you apologize to Bridgett, and to your mother and you move on.” Tim grasped his son’s hand once more before letting gravity guide it back to the ground. He closed his eyes. “Do not let the sins of the past become the sins of the present, son. Forgive yourself.”
“I will Dad,” Paul said with tears rolling down his cheeks. He couldn’t even remember the last time he cried. “I swear to you I will make things right.”
Tim nodded with his eyes still closed. “Tell your mother and brothers I love them,” he said softly.
“You can tell them yourself,” Paul said but his father’s head lolled to one side. “Dad?” he called out, shaking his father’s shoulder.
“Dad?” He repeated but Tim Slaughter was already taken by the black.
“Dad!” Paul shouted. His tears clouded his vision. The world blurred.
“Dad!”
He was infected yet he retained his facilities. The experiments, the barely controllable rage, the red eyes. Somehow it all made sense. Cooper had perpetrated evil, heinous acts but James knew, in his heart of hearts, now the towering Sergeant Brickson aimed to accomplish the right thing. James tried to reason the whole thing in his head as he followed the eccentric Dax Nicola through a massive wooden door and into the sprawling stone house. Whatever he did in the past, whoever he hurt or tortured, whoever he killed or widowed, could all be set right by curing the world.
Right?
“That’s what you want to do huh?” James said, seemingly out of nowhere.
Dax had led them through a high vaulted living room, furnished with fine antiques and priceless artifacts, into a small green carpeted study. Stale tobacco smoke hung in the air while golden framed paintings hung on the striped wall paper. An enormous dark stained wooden desk, piled high with manila file folders, loose papers, and scattered books, dominated one end of the room. A massive sprawling bookshelf stood opposite the desk lining two other entire walls.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Dax asked, leaning casually against his massive desk.
“That’s what you want?” James repeated, turning on Cooper who had just rumbled into the study. He pushed the suited warrior with all his might but Cooper’s steel body didn’t budge an inch. “You think that if you suddenly stop all of this, all of the bad things you have done in your life, all the evil, will be forgiven?”
Cooper arched an eyebrow. His cheeks reddened. It was clear James had hit a nerve. He pressed his attack.
“How many innocents have you killed? For what deranged purposes? Hmm?” James prodded the steel man’s chest with every word. “Now that you helped set the world on fire, you think putting it out will cleanse your soul?”
“I was following orders. I had no choice,” Cooper grumbled.
“That’s what the Nazi’s said at Nuremberg, Sergeant. It wasn’t enough when you took the virus. It wasn’t enough when you shot and tortured me.” James was screaming now, the vein on his neck bulged, his face red. “It wasn’t enough when you burned me. It wasn’t enough when you infected me! Why is it enough now, Cooper?”
“Enough!” a voice roared from behind James. He turned to see Dax Nicola, the happy go lucky golfer, standing just behind him with an indignant expression on his pale lined face. His mustache twitched from side to side.
“You think your conscious is clean, Captain?” Dax asked.
“I didn’t do anything in all my life half as bad…”
“You didn’t?” Dax interrupted him. “You never killed an innocent during war? You never had a dream that woke you night after night reminding you of the horrors you witnessed? Of the atrocities you perpetrated? No matter what you tell yourself, you went to war and you killed for no other purpose then to fill the pockets of the greedy men who build the bombs. You pay taxes to other greedy men who are in turn paid by those same greedy men to launch more wars where other innocents are killed. You worked for the bloody C.I.A. for Christ’s sake! You’ve killed, you’ve maimed, and you’ve made widows just as all of us have.” Dax slammed a large book on the table. Papers fluttered all around, cascading to the ground slowly. The sound rang out like a gunshot. “You protected the very men who engineered this plague. You not only deserve to suffer but you paid to make so.”
Silence filled the room like a poisonous gas. James felt his indignant anger disappear only to be replaced by confusion. There as a lump in his throat. The old man was right. Who was he to judge? In an instant, he toppled James elaborate illusions like a house of cards. He opened his mouth to speak but could say nothing. He turned to Cooper who stared at him coldly, his scar giving his expression a savage look.
“This is not about Cooper’s penance or your redemption,” Dax said. “This is about all of you… and about me.”
Cooper stared at the old man and nodded.
“Well then,” Dax said with a hint of humor back in his voice. “If we are done settling accounts, let us get down to business.” Dax cleared his throat and held his head high as he sauntered towards the book shelf.
“All of these are originals,” he said, tracing a line along the shelf. His finger passed book after book, masterfully bound and beautiful. “They took a lifetime to collect.”
He called out names as his finger walked from book to book. “Dumas, Cooper, Descartes...” Dax’s voice trailed off. He hung his head for a moment as if in reverence. “All the knowledge
a man can hope to possess is in this room, all the knowledge mankind has discovered in our small time in this universe, and more likely than not it will pass into ruin.” He turned suddenly, looking at James and then at Cooper. He smiled sadly. “Because I am coming with you.”
His fingers crept along the shelf again stopping at the top of an old leather bound volume of The Count of Monte Cristo. He pulled the book down and the room shook. James braced himself while Cooper instinctively shouldered his rifle. Dax laughed. There was the sound of cement scraping cement as the bookshelf itself sprung backwards, disappearing into the wall, revealing a well-lit stairwell.
“Besides,” he continued. “All of the books in this room and tens of thousands more are right here.” Dax held up a tiny flash drive between his nimble fingers. He grinned and waved his hand, making the flash drive disappear before heading down the stairs without another word. After a short descent down a whitewashed stairwell, James followed Dax through a pair of black plastic swinging doors, like you would find in a restaurant kitchen, and gasped.
“Welcome friends,” Dax held his arms wide, circling and smiling like Willy Wonka in his chocolate factory. James had never seen such a place in his life and he had been to some of the largest military bases in the world. The high ceiling was lined big orange lights, flickering while they warmed to their full glow. The concrete floor was lined with pallet after pallet. There were neatly stacked piles with mysterious cardboard boxes, pallets piled high with metal O.D. green boxes full of ammunition. A large roll up garage door dominated the middle of the left wall while on the right stood locker after locker, full of guns.
“Dax, you could arm a third world country from your basement,” James mused. He stared in amazement as he walked past a row of neatly parked Humvees.
The old man laughed. “Perhaps one day I will, old chap. You never know what life might bring your way.”
James stopped when his eyes fell on a tiny door on the far wall. A radiation symbol was painted over the doorway. “That isn’t…?”